Of Wolf and Man
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: After receiving a call from an old family friend, the Winchesters find themselves in Beacon Hills finishing a case they started in their teens, back when the creature of the week was hunting a young deputy named Stilinski and his pregnant wife. Now, the monster is back, and the hunters are needed. SPN season 8; TW post season 2. Gen.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes**: Written for sncross-bigbang. I'm taking some creative liberties with this story, which is likely going to leave it AU for season 3 of TW (such as Sheriff Stilinski's name, Derek's age being tweeked to fit my needs…) For SPN, other than a few vague mentions of Purgatory and the trials, there's not a specific setting within season 8, but this is before the "trials" have fully come into play. Warning, this story will include Teenchester flashbacks and possibly mess with the canon timeline ever so slightly (though, with SPN's disappearing soap-opera years, I have no clue how the canon timeline actually fits together now, so we'll just have some fun with it).

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or Teen Wolf. No money is being made off this story. Title inspired by the Metallica song.

* * *

Of Wolf and Man

* * *

Chapter 1 : Here Comes the Rain Again

* * *

The Impala's wheels parted the water over the slick blacktop as she roared past the charming "Welcome to Beacon Hills" sign, her headlights slicing through the night and casting a slight glow over the surrounding woodland. Her steady rumble would have been lullaby enough without the patter of water on the windshield or the dragging melody of CCR from the radio—_'I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?'._ Dean could feel his eye lids growing heavy.

Yes, he could damn-well see the rain, and it didn't appear to be letting up any time soon. So much for sunny California, not that any place was sunny at midnight.

He knew without looking that his brother had already surrendered to sleep, despite the small pile of papers spread out over his lap, but Dean gave him a sideways glance, nevertheless. Sam's head was pressed against the glass, mouth slack and eyes closed, and their dad's journal was still tucked into his side.

Dean couldn't help but snort in annoyance at the mere sight of the book. There was absolutely nothing useful in there. Not anymore, at least. Which wouldn't have been all that strange, accept there_ should_ have been a helpful page or two—just somewhere to start—waiting for them when they opened it up. What they found was a suspicious gap where a month in the fall of 1995 should have been mentioned. Dean had never noticed its absence until now, when they found themselves in need of info, and that was why he could feel a lump of dread sitting heavy in his stomach.

Why the hell had Dad skipped that hunt in his journal?

It was probably nothing. The page probably fell out. Sam had agreed when Dean had offered up the excuse, but neither of the Winchesters believed it for a second. Their job meant developing an instinct for trouble. And Dean could tell himself this was pie, just another hunt that a man they hadn't spoken to in nearly two decades had called them in to handle, but that didn't make it true.

"Damn it, Dad…What happened?" Dean muttered. He switched off the radio and let his hand fall back, slapping Sam's arm gently. "Hey, we're here. You wanna call Deaton?"

Sam hummed an answer before lifting his head off the window and wiping the sleep out of his eyes. He gave his watch a quick, narrow-eyed glance before forcing himself to sit up a bit straighter. "Dunno, man. It's late. Maybe we should just book a room and meet him for breakfast. He still works a day job, doesn't he?"

Dean couldn't hold back his smile. "As far as I know," he answered. "Jeeze, I remember when we were here last, I could never get you to leave the animal hospital. You had to visit every kennel daily."

Sam chuckled, sitting up a bit straighter. "That was when you realized you had a cat allergy, wasn't it? Dad called you 'Sneezy' for a while after we moved." When Dean only snorted at the reply, Sam shook his head, glancing out the front windshield. "When did it start raining?"

"A couple hundred yards before we passed the city limits. Just like last time…" He blinked, eyes narrowed as he tried to remember what life was like back then, before Heaven and Hell and everything in-between was an issue. When it was just hunt or be hunted. "You were such a geek that you got pissy from getting so many days off because of the weather. I'm pretty sure you were the only kid complaining." Dean's amusement fled quickly as he steered the conversation. "How much do you remember about the last time we were in Beacon Hills? You were only, what, eleven? Twelve?"

"I remember plenty. I also remember that Dad didn't tell us much of anything about what he was hunting here. He didn't even let you do any research for him, and you were already hunting by then, weren't you?" Sam chewed his bottom lip, biting back whatever he wanted to add to that statement before giving his brother a pointed look. "You think that's why the entry wasn't in his journal, don't you?"

Dean rolled his shoulders in acknowledgment. "You know Dad. He was a need-to-know kinda guy when we were kids. Figured that's why he kept us in the dark back then." He let out a slow breath, pushing any thoughts of his father aside. "Man, we were only here a few months, but it wasn't so bad. You had fun here. Made friends." A ghost of a smile curled his lips. "Hell, even I made friends."

It was Sam's turn to snort. "Yeah, the kind of friends you liked to spend time under the bleachers with…But you're right. It was one of the better pit-stops. I wish Dad had let us stay a whole year here. We never did figure out why Dad made us pack up in the middle of the night and haul ass out of town."

Dean shrugged. "Maybe he got in a fight with Deaton or something. He never did use the guy as a researcher again after we left." He frowned. "At the time, I thought it was because he'd finished the job and wanted to move on to the next."

"Obviously not," Sam muttered.

"Sam - "

"I'm not criticizing him, Dean," Sam assured, despite his hardened jaw saying otherwise. "You talked to Deaton on the phone. He said this was the same thing Dad hunted. I'm just saying, that wasn't like Dad, leaving a hunt unfinished. Leaving us without a place to start…"

Dean was silent a moment, letting the sounds of the storm and the rumble of the engine fill the car. "Maybe it was exactly like Dad," he said, quietly.

His brother heard him, he was sure, but Sam didn't respond to the comment. Didn't have time to.

A flash of lightning above lit the road, and the trees surrounding it. It, that quick glimpse, was all the warning Dean had. He pushed the brake pedal, resisting the urge to grind it to metal, just in time for the Impala's wheels to catch on the soaked blacktop. The creature bounced off the front fender in its haste, a crunch and a flicker of white light announcing the demise of one headlight, but despite the impact, the animal didn't lose any speed as it darted into the darkness between the trees beyond.

"Shit."

Neither brother spared a single second pulling out the handguns stored in the dash and darting out of the dry comfort of the Impala and into the wet misery outside. Dean rushed off the edge of the road, taking a standing slide down the slick ditch until he was level with the forest floor. He paused, listening for movement, the only sounds coming from the sky above and his brother at his six.

Nothing. One second the creature had been there, the next it had vanished.

"What the hell was that?" Sam breathed. "Black dog?"

Dean knew Sam hadn't gotten the better look at it. Dean had been the one staring straight ahead, but it had been moving so quickly, its silhouette shattered by the flash of the storm clouds above, that he couldn't put an exact name to it.

"Looked like a friggin' wolf. A big-ass gorilla wolf."

"Gorilla wolf?"

"You don't want to know."

Dean took a step back, away from the woods, and pulled a hand down his face, wiping off the rain water that now soaked him to the core. Sam stood in the path of the Impala's single light, both car and man idle and breathing heavy from their spot on the empty road.

"We need to talk to Deaton._ Now_." Dean's lips set in a hard line. "We need to find out what the hell we're supposed to be hunting here."

* * *

Water turned to ice.

The hail clicked against the metal of the car, bringing a grimace to Dean's face and forcing him to pull off the road at the next gas station, where he could rest the Impala under some semblance of a shelter. It wasn't until he looked up from the pale glow of the lights above the pumps that he saw the vehicle rolling in behind them, too close for comfort.

"So much for our evening's plans," Dean noted. "Looks like we have a welcoming committee."

Sam raised a brow before noticing the Sheriff's car parked behind them. "Think it's him?"

"Let's hope so."

He shared an exhausted look with his brother before moving for his door handle. Ice hit the tin high above them, each ping sounding like a gunshot and drowning out the noise of their footsteps. The sheriff stepped out to join them, a heaviness to the frown on the older man's face as he surveyed the Winchesters.

"Your headlight's out," he commented, coming to a stop in front of his vehicle.

"Hit a dog," Dean answered. "Gonna write us up?"

The sheriff's frown broke into a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. The Winchesters would have recognized the worry on his face, even if they'd forgotten what the man looked like; one didn't forget the expression of a man about to lose everyone he loved. Paul Stilinski had been wearing that same look the last time they'd met as well.

"I'll let you off with a warning," he answered, softly. He gave the brothers a once over, surprise showing in his raised brow. "You boys got tall. I wouldn't have recognized either of you if wasn't for that ride of yours. Good to see she's still running."

Dean gave him a crooked grin. "And you got a promotion, _Sheriff_. Suits you a lot better than 'deputy.' Plus, it's always good to have an in with the locals."

Stilinski gave a soft chuckle, but the increased clatter from the hail cut it off. The light amusement on his face melted away, the storm reminding him of why he was standing out in the cold. He shook his head.

"Don't take this the wrong way. I'm glad that you're here, but how did you boys know?" he asked, barely loud enough to be heard. "I tried… I tried finding a way to contact your dad, but, God, it's been so long, I didn't know where to start."

Dean's brow wrinkled in confusion, and he glanced at Sam, knowing his brother was thinking the same thing he was, _Why the hell didn't Stilinski know they were coming?_

"Deaton didn't tell you?" Dean voiced. "He didn't tell you we were on our way?"

Stilinski shook his head. "He said he'd try to find help, after I told him what was going on. But, hell, he said that last year, too, when I wanted him to have someone look into some local animal attacks. Didn't pan out then." He ran a hand over his head, anxiousness rolling off him in a bitter wave. "And after some of the things I spouted off at your dad last time he was in town, I wouldn't have blamed John for not answering my calls, but I figured, after all this time, he'd understand…I mean, if anyone could get what losing Sarah was like for me…"

Sam stiffened. "Sarah, your wife? What happened? When did she die?"

Stilinski hesitated a moment, confused. "She passed in '04. John didn't tell you boys?"

Dean frowned._ Dad, what the hell?_ But it was Sam who answered.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Sam said, even though Dean knew his brother hadn't had a chance to get close to the couple their dad had been helping. Dean, on the other hand, had spent some time with Sarah and Paul, even though John hadn't wanted him involved in the hunt.

"Dad passed away. Several years back," Sam added, as explanation. "And we would have been… It would have been hard to contact either of us last year."

Something akin to regret flickered across Stilinski's face. He let out a slow breath. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Dean's mouth tasted sour all of a sudden, and he hoped it didn't show on his face. He wanted off this subject in a hurry. "Sounds like we've got some catching up to do, but we wanted to get to Deaton's tonight. See if he can fill in any gaps."

Stilinski hesitated a moment before shaking his head. "No. It's late, boys. We've got the extra room at my place. You can follow me. We'll talk after a few hours sleep."

"Paul - "

Stilinski raised a hand to cut them off. "Listen. If this is…if this turns out to be as bad as it was last time, I'd rather you set up base closer than the Relax Inn on the edge of town. And we'll all be better off if we wait until morning for this discussion."

Dean gave the man a hard look and realized Stilinski was probably more tired than the two Winchesters combined. "Then you're sure it's the same thing?"

"Three younger kids are already missing from surrounding towns. Been on the phone all night making promises about them, but they're not going to be found. This storm rolled in just a few days ago. Comes and goes." The man swallowed before locking eyes on Dean. "And my son's been having nightmares, getting into accidents. More than that, though, I can feel her nearby. Like last time. She's back, and…I don't know why, but I think she wants to take my boy this time."

Sam tapped his elbow against Dean's, pulling himself into the sheriff's line of sight again. "She won't get him," he promised.

It was empty, but it was enough, for the moment.

* * *

"You could use the door to leave, like a normal person." Scott smirked at his friend's frozen form. "Just a thought."

Stiles paused at the window before turning on the heel of his muddy sneaker and raising a pointed finger at his friend. "You know, with everyone window hopping these days, I kind of forgot how to use one of those 'door' things. Let it be known that I started the sneaking trend."

Scott chuckled, collapsing back onto his desk chair, exhausted. "I'll make sure you get full credit. Especially if my mom ever figures out how many times I've snuck out."

Another night spent considering a call to Allison, another night he'd come home early instead to find Stiles rifling through his games while his mom was at work. At some point, he realized, he should probably do some laundry or something. Scott shrugged that thought off, considering his friend again, who was so antsy he was practically twitching as he readjusted the bag hanging over his shoulder.

"Stiles, are you skipping your Adderall again?"

Stiles gave Scott a wide-eyed look. "What? Yes? Adderall? Oh, uh, no. It's not that," he rambled. "I just…I don't know, the last couple of days have been kind of strange, and Dad's acting all weird and jumpy and protective. I keep trying to avoid him, but if I avoid him when he's home, he wonders why I'm not home, and then he gets all anal about the not-being-home part, even though I haven't even broken any laws or anything for, like, a whole week."

He paused to take a break, his voice lower when it returned, "He knows something."

Scott sat up straight, mouth gaped. "He knows what? About what?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. "About my love affair with the tooth fairy, obviously." Stiles snorted, his heart not in the joke. "What do you think I'm talking about? He knows something about our werewolf shenanigans."

Scott waited for more, but when Stiles went quiet, he shook his head. "We already knew he was suspicious of something, but your dad doesn't believe in the werewolf stuff, right?"

Stiles plopped on the end of Scott's bed. "Yesterday, I would have said the same thing, but I…I saw him scratch this mark into the door of my car, where he thought I wouldn't see it. It was weird, this little circle with these lines inside it. But it looked familiar, and then I remembered where I'd seen it. When we were first researching all the werewolf stuff, there was this list of symbols, protection charms."

"Protection from…?" Scott let the question hang. "But I was just in your car."

"Yeah, well, obviously it didn't work on werewolves, but still, it means he believes there's something supernatural going on. I think he's suspicious, and hell, why wouldn't he be? With Matt and Jackson and Derek…We didn't do a great job of covering our tracks."

"Yeah, but normal people don't jump to conclusions involving the supernatural. They always rationalize things," Scott insisted.

"I know, Scott! But he must have seen something he couldn't explain. Maybe we should ask Derek if something happened. Something that Dad might have noticed. But maybe ask him in a way that doesn't actually bring my dad up? I don't want Derek to know he knows, _if_ Dad knows, because, you know, it's dangerous to know, and the pack might think he's a danger if they know he might know - "

"I know!" Scott blurted. He made a face, not at all pleased with that plan or the babble. He still hadn't digested it entirely.

After what had happened between them, between all of them, over the last month, he wasn't sure if he should be kicking that hornet's nest. But Stiles was right. Scott knew he hadn't done anything strange in front of the sheriff over the past few days, but that didn't mean one of the other wolves hadn't made an appearance. And Derek's small pack had seemed…off, ever since Erica and Boyd had skipped town. And Jackson's choice to move away with his grandparents at the end of the school year wasn't helping to stabilize their small group of…whatever they were to each other.

"Maybe," Scott admitted. "But we don't know that your dad knows anything. So just act normal. Maybe he's just more superstitious than the average person."

Stiles gave him a doubtful expression, then his eyes widened again when he looked at the computer screen at Scott's side. "Oh crap, is that time right? Dad'll be headed home by now. I need to beat him there, before he decides to hide my keys and lock me in a tower."

Scott followed him down, watching his friend dart off into the rain toward his Jeep. He smiled when Stiles nearly slipped in a puddle in his haste to get in the driver's side door. He was so going to be busted.

A scent dropped down with the midnight rain, tickling at Scott's preternatural senses. It was foul, like day old road-kill, only not as familiar as decay. Scott put a hand over his nose, covering it, and stepped back inside, watching the shadows around his house for movement. He couldn't see anyone, or anything, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something had been watching them. The sense, along with the scent, seemed to fade even before Stiles' taillights disappeared in the distance.

* * *

_**2004**_

The smell of the hospital seemed overpowering, but John figured maybe that was all in his head, a side effect of being stuck in this too-clean, too-tainted building for too long. Hours. That's how long he'd stayed, waiting on the sidelines, just outside the room as the family said their goodbyes.

He couldn't bring himself to interfere, even to give his apologies. Those would just be empty words, and these were full moments, memories the Stilinskis would carry with them for better or worse. If anyone knew what it was like to have those moments stolen away, it was him.

So he kept back and told himself he wouldn't wait for the end. Yet, there he stood.

Finally, he heard movement to his side, and he hoped to God it was Deaton back with his coffee. It wasn't.

It was the boy. Why did it have to be the boy?

"Hey, kiddo," John said, his voice harder than he meant it be. He tried to force a broken smile onto his face and knew he was failing.

The kid couldn't be more than, hell, was he even eight yet? John tried doing the math and his brain stayed fuzzy, popped out coordinates and Latin and nothing relevant to the second, because big honey eyes were staring him down.

The boy…John, for the life of him, couldn't remember that kid's name. Just that Sarah had wanted to give him her grandfather's and Paul had hoped he could talk her down from it because, Christ, it was one of those horrendous family traditions that would get him eaten alive as soon as he entered public schooling.

John's boys had been named for their grandparents, too. The thought was a lead weight in his chest, and for a second, he could see Dean, too-quiet, when he was younger than this child. When he'd lost his mom, too.

"Where's your dad?" John asked, hoping the elder Stilinski would pop out and remember his kid was missing.

The boy shrugged once, then repeated the gesture, as if he couldn't stop himself from moving. Quiet didn't always mean subdued. John could relate, feeling his contagious jitters reach his leg.

"With my mom," he finally answered, saucer-eyes finding the floor. "She's leaving today."

Like "we're having pizza for supper" or "I fell off the swing at playtime". Kids had a way of just saying it. John swallowed hard, putting one heavy, calloused hand on the child's shoulder.

"Maybe not."

Little Stilinski nodded, eyes wet. "It's today," he said, softly, then looked back up, brow wrinkled. "She's leaving because of me."

John ran his free hand down his face, hoping he could wipe away whatever answer was showing in his expression. The kid didn't need to see it. Didn't deserve it, that moment of doubt. He squeezed the boy's bony shoulder.

"Your dad needs you, kiddo. Go back to him."

His dirty white sneakers dragging, the boy disappeared back around the corner toward his mother's room. John pulled himself up out of the chair, wishing he could stretch out his sudden anxiousness and wanting desperately to get to a phone, see how Dean's last hunt had went. Maybe call Kate and check on Adam, too. Hell, it wouldn't take too long to make a covert stop in Palo Alto…

"John."

The calm voice calling his name left John grimacing. He turned to see Deaton already at his side, one stealthy SOB with coffee cups in both hands. John reigned in the sudden wave of anger rushing over him and took his cup from the other man.

"You wanted me to be here for this. I'm here," John answered, by way of reply. "Now, are you going to tell _why_ I'm here?"

Deaton cocked his head, studying him, and John didn't like that man's tone or expression. It reminded him too much of a sympathetic Jim Murphy, which meant Alan Deaton was the least bit likeable, and John didn't _want_ him to be likeable, not at the moment.

"I didn't call you back to make you feel guilty, John." Deaton shrugged one shoulder, leading him away from the room. They stepped down the empty hospital corridor and past the vending machine, further from listeners. "Whether you believe that or not is up to you, but you have nothing to feel guilty for."

"Like hell," John muttered, taking a sip off his coffee.

"We couldn't have known what would happen to Sarah, John." Deaton frowned, shaking his head. "Fine. If you want to carry guilt, go ahead. I know I do. I've spent nearly nine years trying to be of aid, trying in secret to find something to reverse what that monster did that night, and nothing I've found has done more than prolong the inevitable. That's why I try to stay away from Paul. He doesn't need my false hope. And he doesn't need to know how big a role I played in his…loss."

"Thought you had a different family to aid," John said, trying and failing to bite down his bitterness.

Deaton cast his eyes down, a nod. "Yes. I still keep an eye on the Hale family, but I believe you're the one who asked me to never bring them up in front of you again."

John let it go. It wasn't the time or the place. "So if you didn't call me here to remind me of how I screwed up, why did you call, Deaton?"

Deaton glanced over the hunter's shoulder, caution in his narrowed eyes. When he saw nothing, he loosened up again. "Here? At the hospital? Because I thought you should say goodbye. Paul might not know how much I was involved in what happened to his family, but he knows, and remembers, you, John. You were friends with Paul and Sarah, if only for a short time. That's why I asked you to meet me here, but, that's not why I called you to Beacon Hills. The timing was… coincidence, I suppose."

John stared him down when he grew quiet. "You found something."

Deaton nodded once. "I told you, if I ever found anything, I'd call you before Singer or anyone else."

John felt his heart leap into his throat. "You know where the demon is?"

Deaton sighed. "Not exactly. But I think I know where you can pick up the trail." He raised a hand, stopping John from interrupting him. "More than that, though, I think I might know of something that can help you fight it."

"Spit it out."

"It's a gun, John. Hunter lore calls it The Colt. You've probably heard of it before, dismissed as legend. It's not. I've ran into recent information that suggests it's still being held by one of the older hunter families, a family that lived near the weapon's creator, Samuel Colt. You've probably even met its owner before, without ever knowing it." Deaton paused, frowning. "I don't know who has it, unfortunately, but I know it's out there now. If you can find it, you can kill your demon for good, John, and…The worries you had, about your sons, you can - "

John's quick movement cut him off. The hunter was inches from his face, eyes bright. "You have the information on you?"

Deaton reached into his jacket, pulling free a long envelope, heavy with papers. "This should get you started. But, John, this is it. The omens all point to the same thing. You understand that if you go on his journey, you may not return from it? Think of your sons."

John's frown set, he pulled the envelope from the other man's hand. "I've been on this journey since the night Mary died. I_ am_ thinking of my boys. This is more about them than you know, Alan."

"You're going to leave them fatherless," Deaton said, a warning.

"If it's safer for them that way." John stepped away. He pocketed the envelope, pressing a hand against it.

Deaton shrugged one shoulder again. "If you're going to do it, do it right. I put a charm in the papers. Draw it onto your body somewhere and it'll keep you hidden. Perhaps not from something as powerful as a demon, but, unless you want them to catch up with you, your friends and your sons will always find you just out of reach. I hope it's helpful."

"Thanks for this."

"Don't thank me for something that's likely a death sentence," Deaton requested. "I owed you one, and this is simply me finally returning a long overdue favor." He smiled, nevertheless. "See you around, John. And do try to remember that this duty of yours, it's not so black and white as it seems."

John tried to hide the flicker of fear in his eyes, hoping Deaton didn't know how much the reminder was unnecessary, especially after what he'd learned, things he couldn't tell his sons or anyone else. About the demon. About what it did to his baby boy. No, it wasn't so black and white, but the gray between was a dangerous place for a Winchester.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Hunters and the Prey

* * *

_"My boy, my beautiful boy…Mommy needs you, Stiles…"_

He rolled over in his bed, stinging eyes open and staring at the wall across from him. The voice wasn't real, he knew that. It was just some fragment of a dream, but it sounded real enough, and for a moment, Stiles sat up in bed, listening closely for it. For her.

"Mom?" he breathed out.

There was no answer, and he shook it off, that sudden stab-to-the-gut pain, and rolled off the mattress. His feet hit wet clothes, and he groaned. He'd been in such a hurry to pretend he was home in bed that he'd tossed his clothes off in a mad rush, forgetting to lay them out to dry. Hopefully his dad didn't spot them. Stiles wouldn't know. He'd fallen asleep almost as soon his head had hit the pillow.

That whole 'going to bed at a decent hour' thing was, frankly, a little disturbing, but he'd been worn out over the past few days. Like he had been after…Stiles didn't want to rewind to a few weeks ago, when emotions were high, when the adrenaline had dried up and left him beaten and sinking in his own cloudy emotions. He didn't want to call it depression, but coming out of the battle with his life didn't leave him floating on rainbows and butterflies, like he'd expected.

He'd thought that was over now, though. Things were getting a little back to normal. Or, at least, as normal as life could be when you were friends (and enemies) with werewolves and your dad was acting as crazy as the far-from-seasonal weather.

"Well, isn't this the beginning of a beautiful day," he groaned. "Thank God it's Friday."

He kicked the laundry aside, stirring up the scent of mildew and mud, and reached out for his cell phone, which was, thankfully, charging on his bedside table and not still in the his soaked hoodie. It was good enough to tell him that he was running late for school. Awesome.

Also, unsurprisingly, Lydia Martin hadn't sent him a text professing her undying love to him, but Scott had left a single message, apparently sometime after they'd parted ways:_ Smelled something strange. Did you?_

"That's random," Stiles chirped, not quite sure if this was one of Scott's zany wolf moments or a poor imitation of a fart joke. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and pulled a dry T-shirt and sweats on over his boxers. Maybe he was just too tired to 'get it'.

Stiles stepped out of his room, destined for the bathroom, only to hear the shower running. So much for beating Dad to it this morning. (Weren't old people supposed to sleep longer when they stayed out all night?) Instead, he decided to shuffle into the kitchen to set the coffee maker and snatch a cold slice of pizza, breakfast of champions.

Only, _huh_, when he stepped into the kitchen there was already someone eating his two-day-old pizza and drinking his already-brewed coffee, and that someone looked nothing like Goldilocks. Stiles wasn't proud of the fact that his manly cry for help came out a squeak, or that his sudden turn to find a weapon left his feet twisted together. He landed on the floor with a thud, knocking the breath out of him. When he looked up, he found the intruder staring down at him, one brow above his green eyes raised.

"Paul, your kid is kind of a spaz," the guy said, spitting a few crumbs onto Stiles' fresh shirt, then offering an apologetic half-grin.

Stiles was ready to throw his cell phone at the man's head when he heard his father step out of the living room, sighing deeply. "Stiles, what are you doing down there?"

Stiles' mouth dropped open. Seriously? "Oh, you know, just checking for dust bunnies. Good news! No bunnies. However there is a friggin' _stranger_ standing in our _kitchen_!"

A door in the hallway behind him opened, and Stiles craned his neck to see a tall man (or possibly a half-giant-it was hard to tell from the floor) step out of the bathroom in plaid and denim, the tips of his shoulder-length brown hair still wet.

"I thought I heard something fall?" he asked, then spotted Stiles. "Ah."

"Make that two strangers," Stiles corrected.

The other stranger, aka Goldilocks, only grinned, swallowing down a mouthful of crust. "Sam, check it out. This is a Stiles."

_"Boys."_

Stiles realized the warning tone had come from his dad. He also realized he was still on the cold floor. So he scrambled up, snatching an orange off the counter, as if it were part of his morning routine, and then gave his father a tight-lipped smile, waiting for him to go on.

"Oh." Thankfully, his father picked up on what was missing. "Stiles, this is Dean, and his brother Sam. They're old friends of the family, and they'll be staying with us for a few days."

"Old friends?" Stiles echoed, confused.

His dad was in a crisp, freshly ironed uniform, but he looked as tired as Stiles felt. "Yes, Stiles. Your old man actually has those, believe it or not. If you must know, they're private investigators, and they're going to be helping me with a case. And, no, I'm not going to discuss it with you. And, yes, you are supposed to be leaving for school already."

Stiles opened and closed his mouth before settling on a reply. "Okay, fine. School." He waved one hand in welcome. "Great meeting you, guys with no last names. Help yourself to anything in the fridge, 'cause apparently you already - "

His father cut him off with a glare. "_Stiles._"

Stiles moved back, pretending a trip to the bathroom was more urgent than it was. Then he slipped back into his room, snatching up a jeans and over-shirt combo and his bag, but his father's loud 'Dad voice' rang out through the house. "And I want you home right after school! You don't have practice. I already checked."

Damn. Stiles bit back his annoyance. So much for that excuse. But two could play at that game. He made a mental note to call the station and get his dad's schedule for the day, which had obviously been altered if it allowed for two 'private investigators'. Stiles paused at that thought and leaned against his bedroom door, opening it just a crack to listen in on the conversation in the living room. The men's voices had all dropped to near whispers.

_"Sorry, boys, I'm usually the grumpy one in the morning. The nightmares are getting to him."_

_"Does he know what's happening?"_

That was the shorter brother, Dean. Mr. Pizza-stealer.

Stiles heard his father's reply._ "Not yet. And I'd prefer he didn't if there's any way around it. Hell, who am I kidding, he might already know. The kid doesn't talk to me as much anymore, and he's smart. He knows I'm hiding something from him."_

_"Listen, Paul_," the giant picked up. _"We're going to do our best to keep him safe. You warded his car already, right? And we put traps and sigils around the house this morning. He should be safe in public, for now. This thing doesn't sound like it enjoys an audience."_

His dad was silent a moment. _"It's not going to be enough."_

The ache in the man's voice nearly shocked Stiles out of his stealth and into the room, but he held back, listening more closely. Wards? Traps? That didn't sound good.

_"You're right_," Dean replied, his voice gruff but strong. There was something dangerous about his tone. _"It's not. But you know what is going to be enough? Killing the evil son of a bitch before it can get its claws into your boy."_

Stiles did step away then, shutting the door, breath caught in his lungs. He finally managed to let the air escape his throat, his hands shaking as he tried to press the buttons on his phone. Instead he shot out the door, passing the men in the living room at a near run, but his cast down eyes still managed to glimpse Sam crouching down behind his brother, slipping a wicked looking knife into the inner pocket of his jacket.

"See you after school! Have fun with the private dicks," Stiles called, not giving his father time to answer back, or to hear the slight quake in his voice.

He didn't stop until he'd parked his Jeep at the end of the street. A rolling round of thunder announced that the rain would start up again soon. He held his cell up to his ear, pinching the bridge of his nose while it rang on the other end.

_"Hey, man, are you running late?"_

"Yeah, and now you are, too. Remember that part where you didn't want to contact Derek any time soon? Yeah, well, we might not have a choice."

_"Slow down. What's going on? Did your dad say something?"_

"You could put it that way." Stiles chewed his bottom lip. "Turns out I have two new roommates, and I'm pretty sure they're werewolf hunters."

_"What? How…? What?"_

"He knows." Stiles let out a shaky breath. "My dad knows, and I think he's taking it way worse than your mother did."

* * *

"I like that kid," Dean mused. He watched the teen speed off in a Jeep so fragile-looking it made him wary before dropping the curtain back down. "But you know he's hiding something, right?"

"He's a teenager," was Stilinski's reply, but there was something in his tone…Dean gave the older man a hard look, and apparently, it was enough to push out a better answer. "He's gotten into some trouble lately. He and his friends, they're good kids, but I'll be damned if I understand what they're thinking half the time. If there's a problem in Beacon Hills, they somehow always end up in the thick of it." The sheriff shook his head, his voice lower, not really meant for his guests. "God, I miss his mother. I know she would have been able to get it out of him. He would have _talked_ to her."

Dean shared a look with Sam, reading the discomfort on his little brother's face.

"We need to talk about your monster problem," Dean said, drawing Stilinski back. He gave an embarrassed smile. "So, funny thing, Sam and I? We don't exactly know much about the hunt Dad was on back in the day. What do you remember?"

"I wasn't with your dad for all of it. He thought it was safer if I stayed with Sarah." He frowned, obviously not enjoying that memory. "Your father always told me it was something other than what he expected, but he was sure about one thing. It was a type of demon, just not the 'normal kind'. I don't even know what the hell that means, but…" He rubbed at his neck, finding an old ache that didn't exist. "At the time, I didn't even know Dr. Deaton was working with him on the hunt. It wasn't until later, when Sarah was sick, that I realized our small town vet had been the 'researcher' John was talking about."

"Deaton didn't talk to you about the demon?" Sam asked.

"Not really. No. And Deaton's avoided me every time I've tried to ask." Stilinski shook his head. "But I know why they kept so quiet. Neither of them wanted me to know it was the possession that killed Sarah. That was my fault. I was supposed to be watching out for her while they were on the hunt, but it still got in her. And, after the exorcism, she wasn't the same. Her body was weak, especially after she gave birth. The doctors must have treated her for a dozen different diseases over the years, trying to put a name on what she had… It was slow, the way she…"

Sam took an aborted step forward. "Paul, you don't have to talk about it."

Stilinski sat down on the edge of his couch, grasping his head between both hands. "I wasn't in the best shape near the end. Or after, for that matter. When your dad told me it was the demon's touch on her that had done it, I wasn't exactly the most thankful person. God, I was so pissed at the world. I was drinking, and, well, I wasn't a good father, or a good friend. So, when the signs started back again, and Deaton said he wasn't living that life anymore… and when you dad didn't call back, I just figured it was because they thought I blamed them for what happened."

Dean lowered himself down beside the other man. "Paul, I don't know what went down exactly, but I know Dad would have understood. Completely. He wouldn't have held a grudge, but he would have been pissed. At himself, because this job was left unfinished, and that's not the way a Winchester works."

Stilinski clasped his hands between his knees, focused on the floor beneath them. "You'll make sure it dies this time?"

"You bet your ass." Dean glanced up at Sam's solemn face. "Think it's about time we go see Deaton?"

* * *

Sam wasn't expecting the animal hospital to still seem so familiar or to cause him to feel such a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. He was glad for a distraction from memories of carrying an injured dog through doors just like the ones he'd stepped through, of meeting a woman who'd find her way into his heart. That distraction came in the form of his name being called.

"Sam and Dean Winchester. It's about time you two decided to show up."

Sam turned, expecting to see a man he barely recognized, but, surprisingly, Dr. Deaton looked almost exactly like he had all those years back. Maybe a little softer, maybe a little shorter. But Sam figured that last part was just perspective. His dark skin had a healthy shine to it, his eyes the same observant brightness to them. The years had been good to him.

"Dr. D," Dean said, chuckling, and leaned in when the veterinarian opened his arms for a hug. A normal person might not have noticed, but Sam saw his brother press his silver ring against the man's bare wrist, then the holy water dampened corner of his over-shirt. "Long time," he added, smiling in relief when there was no response.

Deaton only shook his head in return. "Too long. I would have enjoyed seeing the two of you grow up. Especially when Sam outgrew you. That must have been a surprise."

"You wound me, man."

Sam smiled fondly at the pair. Dean would never admit it, but he was the more physical of the Winchester bunch, always had been prone to making contact. Even so, Sam hadn't expected such a happy response from Dean, not toward this man. After all they'd only really stayed with Deaton the one time. But, as his brother had reminded him, it was a good one time. Despite what happened to the Stilinskis, they still had fond memories of Beacon Hills, and Sam hoped this experience wouldn't trample those into the dirt.

Or maybe it was already too late for that hope.

Sam had seen the look in his brother's eye when Stilinski had told them about his wife. A little part of him had been crushed to hear the details, too, but, while Sam had barely seen the then-deputy and his young, pregnant wife, Dean had been older, had been more involved with Sarah. Had still put mothers on an unreachable pedestal back then, as if they were something rare and precious. Knowing their dad hadn't told them what really happened to the couple and newborn they'd thought they'd left behind to enjoy a Happily-Ever-After was a blow to both their spirits.

"…and you, Sam."

Sam was pulled out of his thoughts by the hand clapping him on the shoulder. Deaton smiled at him, wearing a soft, knowing expression that reminded Sam of Pastor Jim whenever he was trying to be comforting.

"I'm sorry, about John." His grip tightened, squeezing Sam gently. "I haven't been in the hunters' circles in a long time, or I'm sure I would have known earlier."

"Thanks," Dean said, the smile leaving his eyes.

Deaton pulled away from the two of them. "I wish this reunion could have taken place under better circumstances."

Back to business, then. Sam nodded in agreement, but before he could open his mouth, Dean was already tossing out the bait.

"So, I'd like to say we're already up to speed on this fugly bastard, but we're not. Dad never told us exactly what you two were hunting. What the hell is it?"

Deaton glanced at his glass front door, then ushered the brothers back to his office, gesturing for them to find a seat before he began.

"Back then, we didn't know for certain," he said, "but we realized what it might be, eventually. That's how we found the exorcism we used on Sarah. Unfortunately, the lore on these creatures…It's not very useful, and we didn't have access to enough of it to know that…" He broke off, giving them a tight, regretful smile. "I'm getting ahead of myself. What we're likely hunting is an _Ala_, or a _Hala_ as it's sometimes called. It's usually referred to as a type of demon, but it differentiates greatly, mostly because an Ala, the Ale, can shift their physical forms."

"That explains the gorilla-wolf-thing," Dean said.

Deaton blinked, surprised. "Come again?"

"Our welcoming party," Dean continued. "Something ran out in front of the car, busted out a headlight. It was furry, red-eyed, and damned fast."

Deaton swallowed hard, then turned around, pulling a stack of books off a shelf. None of them looked like they were about proper care of kittens. "Yes, well, perhaps…" But Deaton sounded very doubtful. And maybe even a bit nervous. Sam sat up a bit straighter, watching him more carefully, but he had already went back to the subject at hand.

"The Ale usual take the form of serpents or beautiful women. Sometimes even black clouds in the sky. And, of course, as we know, they can slip into humans as well, possessing them. They're very individualized creatures, which is what makes them so hard to identify. These texts should help fill in the gaps, but I'm sure your own researching capabilities can best mine these days."

"Sounds more like an Acheri demon, or the Rakshasas we hunted, than a regular demon," Sam muttered, but his brother was already talking over him.

"And you're a hundred percent sure this is what we're dealing with?" Dean asked.

Deaton nodded. "I'm sure the sheriff told you about the missing children? It's trying to regain its strength before it goes back to its target. All the signs are there. It's circling the Stilinskis once more. I don't know why it has it out for their bloodline, but it does, and Ale are known for attaching to families."

He flipped open one of the books, gesturing down to a long, indented passage. Sam wasn't sure he recognized the language.

"Serbian," Deaton said, as if reading his mind. "It's an exorcism of sorts…more of a summoning, really, pulling the demon from one spot to another. That was what we did wrong, back when your father and I had it. We cast it, we thought, to Hell. It wasn't enough. We didn't have the information to tell us that, though."

Dean leaned forward. "Is that why it hurt Sarah, when you exorcised it?"

Deaton frowned, hesitating. "No, I'm afraid not. In the lore, an Ala does not often possess its prey, but when it does, it often leaves them tainted. In most accounts they grow ill and die because of the demonic essence it leaves behind."

Sam raised a brow. "Most?"

"Well, there are always special exceptions, but I'm afraid Sarah was simply not one of the lucky few whose body could handle it." Deaton slid the books toward Sam. "Read up, and you'll see what I mean. But, as keen as your skills are, I don't know if you'll be able to find a better method of disposing of an Ala. Unless you have a dragon up your sleeve?"

Dean snorted. "Nah, we usually kill those."

Deaton raised a brow. "Really?"

"We've led weird lives," Dean noted.

Deaton smiled in agreement. "I was actually hoping the two of you might have a more easy-to-use weapon on you. Your father, he found The Colt, did he not?"

Now it was Sam's turn to be thrown off his game. He was pretty sure he and his brother were wearing matching furrowed brows.

"Should I even ask how you know about that?" Dean didn't wait for a reply. "Let's just say The Colt is no longer at our disposal. Or anyone's disposal at this…time. But we have something that works just as well on demonic dicks, though."

Deaton let out a breath. "That's good to hear, because I'm hoping not to make the same mistake twice with this creature."

* * *

"You get why dad hunted this thing? Why he took the job? It could possess people, it could turn into black smoke…Dean, he was looking for a demon. That's why he didn't tell us about it. Then it turned out to be something else."

Dean leaned more heavily off the sidewalk's railing, wadding up the burger wrapper in his hand before he pushed up to full height, turning around to face his brother. "So you're saying he left the hunt unfinished because it wasn't what he was looking for?" he snapped.

"No! I'm saying he knew what he was after before he ever told us about _the_ demon. Before we knew anything about demons being involved with Mom's death. _Way_ before, when we were still kids."

Dean didn't know how to reply to that yet, so he kept his mouth shut. Sam shook his head, resting a hand against the slick railing as well.

Past them, the parking lot was empty but for their Impala, dead ahead. The heavy gray clouds above must have been enough to keep people from their regular vet visits, but the rain had let up, at least for the moment, and the slight chill was almost a welcome relief from the stale air in Deaton's office. They'd spent the entire morning, well into the afternoon, taking advantage of his small library and the wi-fi before Dean had went stir crazy and insisted they pick up a bite to eat.

"Dean…" Sam was more cautious this time around. "You realize something is up with Deaton, right?"

Dean snorted. "Dude is worse at hiding stuff than Stilinski's kid. Did the rest of the world forget how to check for tells or something?"

"Or something," Sam agreed. "But why would he be hiding something from us? He seems to really want to help the Stilinskis."

"My guess? Might have something to do with Dad hauling ass out of here after the hunt went south."

"And about the missing journal pages?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. Yeah, he was thinking Deaton knew how those two things were related, too. "But, honestly? Whatever came between Deaton and Dad was their problem. It's not where our focus needs to be."

Sam nodded in agreement. "So, we know how we can take this thing down, we've got all the lore on it we can find, but something is still bugging me."

Dean could guess what that something was. "Why the hell has it got a hard-on for Stilinskis?"

"Exactly."

Dean glanced down the sidewalk, where the glass door to the animal hospital remained closed. "What do you say we ditch Deaton and find out? The sheriff should be off work soon. And he knows something, whether he realizes it or not."

* * *

Scott waited, as patiently as he could, his hood drawn up over his head as he crouched down on the building's roof, watching the adjacent Animal Hospital for movement. He'd bailed out of his last few classes-something his mother and his final grade were not going to be happy about. Still, Scott, despite having been the one to call Derek, wasn't going to let the Alpha check this out on his own. Not when it involved Stiles' dad. Sheriff Stilinski had always been kind to him, treated him like he was his own, and he couldn't take the chance that the man might get in the other werewolf's way if he didn't run interference.

Scott had been surprised when he'd tracked the hunters' car to the Animal Hospital. And a little terrified. They were talking to Deaton?

Scott didn't know what to make of that, so he slid down, keeping them just barely within hearing range, and waited. Scott was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn't sense Derek until the werewolf was on one knee beside him, a fierce red glow to his eyes.

"Scott," he growled, as a welcome. "What have you found out?"

Scott felt his body stiffen, but he tried to hold down that part of him that wanted to tell the Alpha not to order him around. He wasn't pack anymore, and there wasn't a chance he'd ever want to be pack again… was there? Scott wasn't sure he wanted to ask himself that question, and now was no time for it.

"I told you over the phone," he said, hating that it came out as a whine. He started over. "The two guys Stiles said were hunters are here. From what I can tell, they spent most the day visiting Deaton, but I haven't been here long enough to find out why."

Derek's frown deepened with anger. "Why Deaton?"

"If I knew, don't you think I would have told you?"

The werewolf glared at him. "Thanks for being so very helpful, Scott." He sat up a bit higher, studying the two men below. "That car… They came in the Impala?"

"Yeah." Scott couldn't keep the slight smile off his face. "Sweet ride, even if it is owned by hunters."

"A '67," Derek said, but he didn't sound as if he were admiring the classic. His brow wrinkled in confusion. "Did Stiles say their names?"

"Sam and Dean. They're brothers." Scott had barely finished when Derek shot up to his feet, leaping the distance over to the emergency stairs and disappearing over the side of the building. "Crap."

Scott thought about following but hesitated, leaning closer to the edge of the roof instead. "Derek!" he hissed, but the werewolf ignored him.

It was like watching a train wreck, or, more correctly, waiting for a train wreck he knew was going to take place. Scott didn't know how to stop the encounter that was about to happen, so he only stayed on his haunches, prepared to run, as Derek, down on the ground below, walked down the sidewalk, toward the loitering pair of hunters.

Then it got really weird, because Scott was almost certain Derek was now wearing a wide, genuine smile.

"Whoa. Weird."

* * *

"Sam? Sam Winchester?"

Sam had already opened the Impala's door, ready to slide inside, when he heard the voice. It wasn't familiar, and neither was the face he saw when he turned around. There was a man standing on the sidewalk, wearing a small smile. Dark features, maybe a few years younger than him, black leather jacket; Sam couldn't recall ever meeting him, but he stepped away from his open door, nevertheless, knowing, from instinct alone, that his brother was watching the stranger with caution, a hand on a weapon's handle.

The man shook his head in awe, stepping a few feet closer. "I told you you'd grow up taller than me," he noted. "I would never have recognized you if it hadn't been for your dad's car. Can't believe it still looks the same after all these years."

Sam cocked his head, eyes narrow as he stared at the man's face again. "Wait…_Derek_?"

Derek's smile widened slightly. "So you do remember me. Good to know I left an impression."

Before he could stop himself, Sam clasped hands with the man, their shake turning into a one-armed hug. "I can't believe it," Sam muttered, grinning. "I can't believe you still live around here."

Derek shrugged. "Home is home. I left for a bit, but I moved back not too long ago. What about you? What brought you back to Beacon Hills' Animal Hospital, of all places?"

Sam smiled back, hoping it reached his eyes, but it wasn't the lie on the tip of his tongue that gave him pause. There was something intense in Derek's tone, and he wondered where that had come from. Maybe it was just the time standing between them, but it left Sam unnerved. He remembered Derek Hale as energetic, tough, and lively. Granted, the Derek Hale he knew had been a pre-teen at the time. This man was subdued, hard around the edges. Like he'd lived a life too similar to Sam's.

"Dr. Deaton has some stuff that belonged to our dad. We thought we'd pick it up while we were passing through the area."

Understanding flickered across Derek's eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said, more quietly.

"How'd you - "

"I know that look. Had it not too long ago. My parents…" He paused, the sympathy on his face disappearing almost as quickly as it had appeared. Sam was surprised by the sudden change in his demeanor, the widening of his nostrils, the stiffness in his jaw. "How long are you planning to stay in town?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but the slight creak of Dean's door cut him off. His brother was leaning across the roof of the Impala, one arm casually down at his side, and he caught his eye, nodding slightly.

"Few days," Sam finally replied.

"Dean," Derek said, tilting his head in acknowledgement.

Sam bit down a smile at his brother's raised brow. He somehow doubted Dean would have been able to pull Derek's name off the top of his head, but then again, Sam had been the one who'd been friends with the younger boy. They'd even written back and forth the first few years after they moved from Beacon Hills, and Sam honestly couldn't remember why they'd ever stopped. School, hunting, life; their friendship had simply faded over time.

Dean smiled back, earnest enough to fool a stranger. "Good seeing you again, Derek. Like Sam said, we'll be in town a few days. You two should hit that diner down the road one morning. I'm sure you pen-pals have a lot of catching up to do."

Sam raised a brow, as he watched Dean shift his weight uncomfortably. Sam hadn't even realized Dean knew about the letters, but what surprised him more was offer to hang out. His brother wasn't big on friendships outside the job.

"We should," Derek finally replied, quietly.

Dean tapped the car fondly, as if ready to dive inside it, but he paused instead, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. "Hey, uh, how's your big sister doing? Did she get to go to med school, like she wanted?"

Derek stilled, eyes dropping down a moment. "She started," he said, swallowing. "Laura died. About a year ago."

"Derek…" Sam's voice trailed off, but Derek took a step back, as if anticipating a touch he didn't want to receive. "How?"

"I'm sorry to hear that, man," Dean interrupted, his frown aging him, as it always did. "Laura was a great girl."

Derek nodded in agreement. "She liked you too. Even after you left."

A silence fell over them, the rumble in the clouds above taking over the conversation. Sam wasn't sure how to continue, but the sound of Dean's cell phone made the decision for him. Dean answered, keeping his head down as he listened to the voice on the other end. Derek's eyes trailed him, even as Sam jotted down his number.

Derek took the sliver of paper, still watching Dean. "I should be going," he muttered, distracted. "I'll call."

The man was headed down the sidewalk before Dean even snapped the cell phone shut. Sam wanted to stop Derek, but he knew from one glance at his brother that it wasn't good news.

"That was Stilinski," Dean said, letting out a shallow breath. A mist had begun to fall again, leaving the tips of his short hair glistening. "His kid's missing."

"How does he know he's missing?"

Dean pocketed his phone, dipping down into the car and out of the weather, and Sam mirrored the move, their doors slamming shut.

Dean gave him a sideways glance. "Stiles isn't home from school, he's not answering his phone, and, oh yeah, his car was abandoned in the middle of a road."

"We should have told him to pick his son up after we figured out what this was..." Sam ran a hand down his face, considering what they'd learned about the Ala. This thing was powerful, more than what they expected when they'd left the family that morning. "But, Deaton said we probably had more time. He said the storms would get worse, a lot worse, and there'd be more children taken before it attacked its intended prey. Like last time, when it came for Sarah."

"Well, I guess this thing tossed out its own rule book."

_"Shit."_

"Yeah, the sheriff shares your sentiments."

The Impala squealed as Dean threw it into gear, burning rubber as he skidded out of the parking lot.

* * *

Before the grumble of the old car had faded in the distance, the heavens released another floodgate, pelting Derek with small, stinging bits of ice, but Derek's stony expression didn't change in the least. He heard Scott hop down off the side of the neighboring building, running out from between them to catch up with Derek.

"What was that about?"

Derek raised a brow, glancing over his shoulder at the younger werewolf. "What was_ what_ about?" he asked.

Scott lowered his head, jaw hard and set as he glared up. Derek assumed the expression was supposed to be intimidating, but it would have looked more dangerous on a puppy, frankly. Realizing he was going to have to explain his reaction to seeing the Impala, Derek shook the ice off his hair and dipped beneath the overhanging lip of the neighboring building's roof.

"They're not here to hunt us," Derek said.

"But they are hunters?" Scott asked. "And you know them? How? Are they with the Argents? I heard you talking to them, with, like, _actual_ sentences instead of grunts. You're friends with hunters now?"

"Yes, they're hunters. No, they don't run in the same circle as the Argents. And the rest is none of your business. They won't be a threat to you so long as you stay hidden from them."

"None of my business? And what do you mean 'so long as I stay hidden'…They don't know you're a werewolf?"

Derek resisted the urge to throttle him. "No," he bit. "Let's keep it that way. Now, if you're done asking questions, that was Sherriff Stilinski on the phone with Dean."

"I couldn't hear it," Scott said, the rolling thunder above giving him an excuse. Derek realized that something must have shown on his face, because the teenager was suddenly wearing a worried frown. "Is this…Did something happen to Stiles?" Scott asked.

Derek nodded, but before he could reply, Scott was already turning to run. Derek caught his arm, digging claws into his skin to stop him. He pulled him in close, a growl in his voice.

"Go, but stay out of the Winchesters' way. I mean it, Scott."

Derek released him, letting the young wolf run toward the Stilinski house, but he knew they wouldn't be apart for long. Scott would be back as soon as he realized he couldn't follow Stiles' scent from there. Maybe he'd be able to pick up on something useful though. Derek just hoped he could manage it without catching the Winchesters' attention.

Considering the pair of hunters again, Derek gave the animal hospital a glance. There was someone he needed to speak to before he pulled his meager pack together.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Boy Who Cried Wolf

* * *

_**1995**_

Rain water and sweat plastered his uniform to his back, but Sam was too flushed from excitement to feel the coldness seeping through. Practice had been decent, considering the weather, and better than expected when Gabriel Harris had wiped out trying to show off his 'moves.' Sam would be lying if he said he'd actually paid any attention to the time while he was out, especially after coach left, but now he realized it was almost pitch black past the yellow glow of the street lamps.

He reached up, pushing his sopped brown bangs off his ruddy face before he crouched down beside the single-level apartment, all but throwing his weight against the wall. A split second later, another body slammed into the brick beside him, ribbing him.

"I let you win," Derek announced, slicking back his spiky black hair.

The cocky grin plastered on his face and the mud smeared over his cheeks left the boy looking wild. He slid down to one knee to match Sam's movement, and the two were nearly eye to eye. Sam would admit, he was a little jealous of the guy's height. Derek was a few years his junior but had been bumped up to Sam's team, so when they'd met, Sam hadn't really paid much attention to the fact that they were the same height. Now though, he noticed, and it didn't help that, despite John's training, Derek was carrying more lean muscle than Sam.

Sam wondered if he'd ever grow out of his own pudgy chipmunk cheeks and shrimp stature, both of which tended to leave him dubbed "Dean Winchester's little brother, Sammy" instead of "Sam Winchester," even by kids his own age. The thought almost made him groan, but he bit it back, rolling his eyes at Derek instead.

"Bull. You're not that much faster than me," Sam replied, chuckling, but he kept his voice quiet and motioned for his friend to lower his as well. "I need to check and see if anyone's back yet. Dean's going to bite my head off for being out at night…"

Derek shook his head, smiling. "And you're going to sneak in past him?"

"Not past Dean. But if my dad's here? Yeah," he admitted. "Dean will keep Dad from going to my room until I can sneak in and change."

"Your brother's kind of cool."

Sam snorted. "And lame, and a jerk, and gross." But he was smiling, nevertheless, when he peeked around the corner and saw the car was still gone, which meant their Dad was still at Deaton's.

Derek reached out to stop him from standing, though. "That's my sister's bike. Bet my mom doesn't know Laura's not at work. Busted…"

Sam did groan this time, retreating back around the side of the house to peek through the crack in the curtains. Now that he was closer to the glass, he could feel the vibrations from the music playing inside. AC/DC, because Dean had his own favorite 'make-out' songs.

"Did I mention the 'he's gross' part?" he whispered.

Derek slid beside him, looking in as best he could. He made a face as soon as he spotted his sister Laura on the couch beside Dean. The two were caught up in one another, kissing. Sam was pretty sure he even saw tongue. And his brother's hand slip up her T-shirt.

Derek might not have looked his age, but he was still young enough sneer in disgust. Sam wanted to laugh at his expression, but he didn't have time. He saw the headlights coming down the road before he even heard the Impala's familiar rumble over the sound of thunder.

"Shit," Sam breathed, weighing his options.

He was a half second away from banging on the window to get Dean's attention, when John charged into the room, as if he were on fire. Sam froze, almost scared by the hardened look in his dad's eyes. Had something in the hunt gone wrong? Sam wanted to run in through the front door, consequences be damned, and ask if anyone was hurt, but he chickened out when he saw the expression on his dad's face when the man noticed Dean and Laura scrambling up off the sofa.

John nearly yanked the stereo off the shelf as he turned it off and raised a hand, pointing at Laura. "You need to go," he said, his voice low. "Now."

Laura shared a look with Dean before grabbing her purse and disappearing out the front door.

"Dad," Dean began, more confused than angry. "I'm sorry I had a girl over, but you didn't have to -"

"Don't argue with me, Dean," John barked.

Silence fell over them, and Sam could see that both his sixteen-year-old brother and his father were trembling with either anger or anticipation. Sam could definitely get the anger. Heck, he was angry_ for_ Dean. Sam might have teased, but he knew that Dean really liked Laura. They'd been talking at school since his first day there. It wasn't fair that their Dad was being so rude to her. Sam could see the hurt cross Dean's face before being pushed down, replaced by something stony.

"I'm not arguing, _sir_."

Sam winced, anticipating his father's comment on that tone of voice, but instead, his father stared off at the kitchenette, not making eye contact with his son. John finally ran a hand over his scruffy chin, as if coming to a conclusion.

"You're not to see her again," he said, quietly. "Even at school, don't talk to the Hale girl or any of her family. It's best for us and for them if you don't get attached. And I don't want you near them. Do you understand me?"

Dean's nostrils flared, and he took a step forward. "No sir, I _don't_ understand, actually. Yesterday, Laura came over for lunch, and you liked her. What could she have possibly have done since then to piss you off?"

John marched forward, leaning into his son's space, close enough that Sam could barely hear the low growl of his voice. "You will watch your tone with me, son. And you will stay away from Laura Hale. I don't have to explain myself to you. When I give you an order, you follow it. Now, I repeat,_ do you understand me_?"

Sam turned his back on the window, hunching down against the wall and pissed enough to punch it for not yielding. He didn't have to hear his brother's answer. He knew, as much as Dean liked Laura, as angry as Dean probably was, he wouldn't disobey an order like that, especially when their dad was in a mood.

Sam blushed, realizing the heavy sigh at his side belonged to Derek. For a second he'd forgotten his friend was watching, listening, with him, but now he realized what his dad had said, about the 'Hale family,' and the embarrassment washed over him anew.

"It's okay, Sam," Derek said, softly.

Sam felt the younger boy squeeze his shoulder.

"It's not okay," he hissed back. "My dad's an asshole. He probably won't even care who Dean's dating tomorrow. He's probably…" Sam didn't want to say _drunk_ because that would somehow seem just as bad as _paranoid_. "Aren't you mad at him, for treating your sister like that?"

Wasn't anyone mad at his dad like he was? Sam kicked at the ground, throwing up rain slicked pebbles, but when he looked up, Derek's face was just as set as Dean's had been: stony and hiding whatever was going on behind it.

That wasn't what Sam had expected to see. "Derek?"

"I have to go home," he said, trying to smile and failing. "I'm sure you dad's just…I'm sure he's just trying to keep everyone safe."

Sam raised a brow, confused.

"Derek, get on."

Sam nearly jumped out of skin at the call from the front of the building, and he spun around to find Laura sitting on her bike, staring at the two boys knowingly. If she was surprised to find her little brother there, it didn't show on her face. Instead, she gave Derek a short nod and he ran up to her, jumping on the end of her bike to hitch a ride. He gave Sam a quick wave before turning away.

Sam wanted to stop him, tell him it wasn't safe to be out, because kids were missing one town over. But mostly he wanted to stop the other boy to make sure they were still friends.

* * *

_**Now**_

He awoke to the sound of a storm, and really, that was becoming quite the common occurrence as of late. The weather had been wacky, like global warming turned sentient ice age in a science fiction B-movie wacky, and didn't that description fit his life these days? Abet with less kooky science and more cheesy horror, minus the zippers in the back of the monsters' costumes.

Stiles was pretty certain his thoughts were actually slurred. Could thoughts be slurred? Maybe there was another word for it. Sludgy? Nope. Murky? He would have snapped his fingers in thought if he could actually feel them. They were surprisingly numb and cold. Dad needed to check the AC.

Something about that struck him as funny, but when he tried to laugh, he let out a wheezy breath instead, his sore chest catching him off guard. Why did his chest hurt? Did he get smacked in practice? Maybe he got smacked in the head too…That would explain the sludgy thoughts.

But no… 'Cause practice was canceled due to the weather. And Dad said to come straight home because he was worried…about the storm? Or something to do with Goldilocks and the giant staying at his house? Wait…that's not how that story went. Crap.

Stiles tried to shake off his confusion and pain lit behind his eyes, white and blinding. Someone might have whimpered. Certainly wasn't him.

Thunder rolled, laughing at him, and he was back to the weather again. The storm that woke him and seemed closer than his bedroom window. So close he could feel the chill of the wind, the splatter of rain on the legs of his jeans.

For the first time, he realized he was shivering. It wasn't only his fingertips that were freezing.

Stiles tried to open his eyes, but the lashes over his right eye were matted with something. He blinked a few times, working them apart, and the dull gray light around him left him disoriented. Or maybe it was the fact that he was standing against a wall of dirt, instead of laying in bed, and staring out at a muddy stream of rainwater runoff, instead of up at the ceiling.

"This can't be good," he muttered.

It was a testament to what kind of year he'd had that he didn't immediately scream when he realized his arms were bound at his sides. Shaking off his drowsiness, he tucked his chin in, looking down at his body. All the right parts were there, but he couldn't seem to pull himself up away from the packed earth behind him. After a moment, he realized he was standing against the side of a shallow ravine, the earth above curving out, grass overhanging and leaving a curtain of thin roots right over his head. And also leaving him in the shadow of the wall of dirt. He couldn't see what exactly had been used to secure him to the earth but it felt cool and slick. Like those roots above.

And that wasn't a good thing, because he was fairly certain that human kidnappers didn't use plant-life to tie up their victims. But leave it to those crazy supernatural villains…

"Great. That's just great." He let out a panicked breath, sucking on his bottom lip. He was supposed to be home right now, pretending to study for his exams, and, for once, not getting into trouble. "Dad's going to kill me."

Something moved at his peripheral, but Stiles didn't turn his head fast enough to see what it was. "Okay, whoever the hell you are, you can come out now. Or is your evil plan to just leave me here to die of boredom?"

Maybe mentioning his potential death wasn't a great idea at the moment. Stiles put that on his do-not-say-again list.

There was a whisper on the wind, one he barely heard. It came again, louder. From somewhere closer.

"_My beautiful boy_…"

He knew that voice. It was one he sometimes heard in his dreams. More than once, he'd been afraid of forgetting what it sounded like. He'd dig up old VHS tapes, ones from back in the day, when his parents had been young and gotten their hands on a hefty camcorder. He'd watch her and memorize the sound of her laugh, something he hadn't had the chance to hear often enough as a kid.

"Mom." He bit the word, swallowing hard. "Mom?"

He blinked, and the next moment she was there, standing in the knee-deep, running water, wearing the dress she'd been buried in. It was her favorite, a yellow print with tiny white flowers. The rain weighed down the fabric and her dark blond hair, leaving her soaked.

"_My boy_," she said.

Stiles could remember it now, how he'd gotten here, why his head hurt and his chest felt as if someone had taken a bat to his ribs. He'd seen his mother once already today, driving home. The Jeep had skidded to a stop, right in front of her. His instinct, even before he recognized the figure in the downpour, had been to get out of the vehicle, help her, and that was what he'd done. But as soon as he'd stepped into the rain, he'd realized something was wrong.

One second he was trying to crawl back into his car, the next, she was screeching into his ear, pulling him back out again, her hand sizzling like bacon on cast-iron when it touched the driver's side door. He'd been flung across the road, body hitting gravel at a sliding stop. She was on top of him in an instant, so heavy…Like she was more than what he could see.

His last memory was of trying to catch his breath, of glaring up at her scaled palm as she reached down, gripped his ear and slammed the side of his head into the stop sign's pole.

Stiles wanted to reach up, touch the broken skin at his brow, but he couldn't budge, and she was getting closer.

"Stop," he whispered, voice shaking. "Stop looking like her. I know…I know you're not her."

The figure stilled, a wide smile growing on her face. "No," she replied, "I'm not."

Then her skin melted away, sliding off into a pool of darkness hovering at her feet and leaving her a decaying thing, still smiling back at him. The bones shed their color as well, until it seemed she simply faded into the blackness, becoming a cloud that blanketed the stream.

Stiles' eyes widened in fear as he watched black smoke slither across the top of the rushing water, headed his way. It moved to his side, blending in with the shadows. He couldn't see her, but she was still there. He could feel her, watching him, eyes or no eyes.

"I'm not Sarah Stilinski," she hissed, still using his mother's voice. "She was a bag of bones I wore once. I fed on her, bled my poison into her veins."

Stiles pulled against the roots holding him still, head turned to stare into the darkness. He could feel the pounding of his heart against his ribs. "You…My mom." He couldn't process the creature's words, his mind circling back to images of his mother in a hospital bed. Of his mother, getting weaker with ever year. "She…You're lying. She was sick."

The smoke pressed against him, its whisper in his ear. "She was dead the moment she bore the son of a Stilinski."

* * *

The hunter had spent years learning to push down his emotions when it came to the people they failed, the victims they didn't reach in time, but despite his practice, Dean ached just looking at Sheriff Stilinski. Paul, the worry lining his face, the hard glisten to his dull eyes, took Dean back to a time before he'd been taught to wear a mask when dealing with the people he was trying to help.

Paul reminded him of Dad; it was that simply. The guy had almost nothing in common with John Winchester aside from a shared moment in time but being here in a familiar setting, it brought back memories of the man. And it didn't help that Dean could almost hear his father's voice asking his sons to make this right.

_But it's not my mess, Dad. Not this time_. It was John's. Dean and Sam, they were just stuck with clean-up.

Dean tried to push that tiny spark of resentment down and focus on what was going on in front of him. Stilinski chose that moment to slap a coffee mug off the dining room table, where Sam had set-up shop. The shatter was followed by footsteps as the man moved back a few paces, catching his mouth in his hand, as if he'd surprised himself with the action. His eyes warily drifted to a small cabinet, where a bottle of bourbon was staring at him before coming back to Sam, and the shadow behind him, Dean.

Dean realized, though he hadn't heard it, that Sam must have asked a follow-up question that rubbed the man the wrong way.

"I just don't see how this helps him," Paul said, a forced calm to his voice. "We shouldn't be going over genealogy. We should be out there, finding my son."

Sam's brow was furrowed as he stared up from his seat, and he frowned, mimicking the man without realizing it. "I know it seems that way, but the more we know, the more likely we'll be able to find him. We need to know what this thing wants, Paul."

Paul grimaced, shaking his head. "It wants to kill him. Like it did his mother."

"There has to be more to it." Sam tapped the top of his laptop. "We know it kills kids. We know it feeds on them to gain strength. But, Paul, it didn't do that to your wife. There's something it wants from your family."

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know," he growled. "I just don't know. Sarah and I, neither of us grew up with a close knit family, but if there was a monster picking off relatives, we would have noticed. And I sure as hell didn't do anything to attract its attention. Your dad asked me that back then, too." He took a breath, shaking his head. "I just don't know why it went after Stiles. I warded his car. He was supposed to be safe around people…I was out all day. It could have gotten me at any time. But it didn't."

Dean raised a hand to cut him off. "You said before that you thought it was after him. It was giving him nightmares. So why would you even think it would - " Dean winced and let out a bitter chuckle. "Damn it, Paul. You dangled yourself out in front of it today, didn't you? Live bait. Made sure you were real easy pickin' by avoiding the wards. Christ."

"Well, it didn't work, did it?" Paul snapped. "It still went after Stiles."

Sam pushed himself up from his chair. "Wait, if it really did choose to ignore you completely, that helps us."

Paul glared at him. "What, because we now know it's trying to kill everyone I love before taking me out?"

Dean shrugged. "While that's a possibility whenever dealing with evil sons of bitches, I think Sam's pointing out something a bit more on the nose. There's a common tie between this thing's last two appearances. Your son. This thing didn't pop up in your life until Sarah was pregnant."

Paul stiffened, the fear on his face enough to knock Dean back a step. "It wanted him this whole time? It wanted my boy?"

"And I think I might know why," Sam muttered, to himself, leaning forward to snatch one of Deaton's books up off the pile. "Paul, I know this is a longshot, but do any of those relatives you're not close to live nearby?"

Shaking his head again, Paul collapsed down into his seat. "No…none of them are even alive, save a few cousins halfway across the states. Maybe a few in the old country too. Wait…my grandmother, she passed about a year ago, and I kept some of her old heirlooms she had in her attic, mostly stuff from her grandparents. I've been so busy, I never even went through it all. It's still stacked in the garage. Do you think that would be useful?"

Sam nodded. "It might. Were there any books, records, journals?"

"Yeah. Actually, there were. Third box from the floor, I think…I'll show you."

Dean put a hand on his shoulder, holding him still. "Sam can find it."

Sam gave his brother a nod, folding his laptop to take it with him to the garage, and Dean poured the older man two fingers of whiskey. "I think you need this. Hell, I need one too."

Paul didn't disagree. "Dean, I know I shouldn't ask, but what do you think she wants him for? What's she doing to him?"

Dean swallowed a shot of the warm bourbon, savoring the burn at the back of his throat. "Nothing good."

* * *

The thing had left its scent at the Stilinski house.

Scott had crouched down beside the front porch, wanting to hear inside, but barely able to concentrate on what the men inside were saying, because Stiles…He wasn't there. Not that he'd doubted it really. Not that he doubted Derek that much anymore, against his own better judgment. But he'd had to see for himself.

He hadn't expected that scent, though, but as soon as he caught it, he knew…Whatever had taken Stiles had been tracking him. It was the same rancid scent he'd smelled when Stiles had went out to his Jeep the night before, only it wasn't as heavy. The thing that had left it wasn't here anymore.

Scott heard something crash inside the house, but no shouting followed, no signs of a struggle. Still Scott winced, wishing he could go inside and see Sheriff Stilinski. The man was like a father to him, and if he knew that something not-human had taken Stiles, he was probably losing it.

"I'm sorry." Scott wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. For not knocking on the front door? For not being there with his best friend? For not telling the sheriff about the dangers right under his nose?

Scott shook off his moment of guilt, circling back through his options. For half a second, he considered calling Chris Argent, but there were already two hunters too many involved in this. He could try to find its trail, but Derek had already sent him a text, telling him they would be meeting and the few details he'd overheard about the abduction, so he knew this wasn't where Stiles was taken from and…

Scott's thought trailed off as he noticed the Jeep. Someone must have driven it home after it was found. The scent seemed heady around it. Scott shot the house a look, insuring himself a rifle-toting hunter wasn't about to march out and fill him full of wolfs bane, before running across to the driveway, where the vehicle was parked beside the Winchesters' Impala.

The scent was coming from the driver's side door. Scott remembered Stiles mentioning the ward and studied it a moment before creaking the flimsy door open. There, on the interior, right below the lock catch, a symbol had been drawn out. Or Scott had assumed it was, he could barely make it out now. There was something black burnt over the paint. He leaned in, taking a deeper whiff and nearly gagged.

It was the thing's flesh. The marking must have burned it when it took off with Stiles.

Scott hesitated, fighting back a tremble as anger rushed over him. He could almost picture it, something dark and decayed grabbing hold of Stiles, pulling him away. His friend struggling to get back into the safety of his car. And slipping loose.

Scott wanted to rush off right then, into the wood, let his wolf take over the hunt. Instead he gathered his wits and reached for a napkin in the Jeep's middle compartment, scraping the blackened flesh into its clean center and pocketing the wad of paper.

His phone vibrated with another message, but he already knew who it was from. Tonight, at least, he needed the pack.

"We'll find you, Stiles. I promise."

Then he was off, a wolf on the run.

* * *

"I have something."

Dean and Paul looked up from the scattered translations laying across the table, startled by Sam's sudden appearance. One look at his face, and both of them scrambled up out of their seats.

Dean raised a brow at his brother. "That was fast."

The youngest Winchester was carrying a small, pocket-sized journal with him instead of the book and laptop he'd left with. He held it up, one finger tucked inside to keep his page. "Yeah, well, it was easy. I just flipped through until I found the summoning ritual. Serbian kind of stood out amongst all the broken English." He glanced over at Paul. "Stefan Stilinski," Sam said, something close to outrage on his face.

Paul frowned. "That was my great grandfather's name," he muttered. "He was from the wealthy side of the family. I never knew the man personally."

Sam stepped up between them, holding the small journal open. "Bet you have no clue how he made his fortune…" He took a breath, starting over. "From what Dean and I learned about Ale, they tend to behave like regular demons in some ways. They can smoke out. They can possess people, or animals. And, here's the kicker, they can also make deals. Only, unlike the demons we usually fight, their interest doesn't seem to be in souls."

Dean winced. "Son of a bitch. She's collecting her due."

Paul shot him a look. "Okay, back up, and tell me what's going on again, as if I don't know what the hell a 'regular' demon is."

Sam held the journal closer, reading a line. " _'It is through my kindness to another that I have insured my good fortune, and the good fortune of my son and his son's sons…_' He stops there. The ale, according to some of their stories, are benevolent to those who treat them kind. They do them favors, grant them wishes. Only - "

"Only," Dean picked up, "these things never work for free, even if they don't mention paying for their gifts. And they're always specific when it comes to wording their deals. Your great grandfather mentioned the good fortune of his 'son and his son's sons', which would be your grandfather, your dad, and you. Tricky douche bag didn't promise anything past that."

Sam nodded, closing the book again. "And that would be why the Ala went for your son." He hesitated, sharing a look with Dean. Dean knew that expression, it was the one Sam used when he wasn't sure if he should go on.

"He needs to know," Dean told him.

Sam sighed. "Paul, there's a good chance we already know what she might want with Stiles. If she wanted to consume him, she could have done that when he was in the womb, but she didn't."

"What are you saying?" Stilinksi asked. "She wants to possess him, doesn't she? God…" He shook his head, eyes wet with unshed tears. "I can't take that…I can't watch my boy die like his mother."

"That might not be exactly what she wants," Sam replied, trying to comfort the man. "Even if is, it might not happen the same way it did with Sarah."

"What's that even mean?" Paul asked.

Dean put a hand on his brother's elbow, stopping him from going on. He cleared his throat. "Paul. Sam and I think we know how we can use the summoning ritual in our favor, especially now that we have a copy of the original. But this bitch isn't getting off easy. We're going to kill her, as soon as we draw her out."

"But, Dean, what if it's already possessed him? The ritual, it'll…" Paul's voice trailed off, defeated. "There's no way around it, is there? Killing her, will it stop her…poison, if it's already in him?"

"Truthfully? I don't know. But we've got to do this, man. You've got to trust us," Dean said. He gave Sam a glance. "I'll call Deaton. It's nearly dark. If we're going to do this, we're going to need to do it now, before it gets any further with Stiles."

* * *

Scott burst out of the trees. Even without his heightened senses, he would have been able to hear the argument coming from the front steps of the old Hale house. For some reason, he hadn't expected to see the rest of the pack there, but Isaac stood against the front wall of the house, watching Derek and Peter from a safe distance. Derek stood on the top step and Peter on the ground, both of them going suddenly quiet as they sensed Scott's approach.

"Good, you're here," Derek snapped, still not looking in Scott's direction, his hostile glare on Peter. Scott came to a stop a few yards from them, raising a brow as he watched the group.

Derek's eyes flashed red as he continued to watch the older beta. "This isn't just about finding one boy, Peter. This creature's presence concerns us all."

Peter seemed to read another line after the acknowledgement because his face twisted into a bitter smirk. "Oh, I do love when you take charge…You're the Alpha, Derek. If you ask me, I'll stay, but I still say we don't chance a run-in with these hunters. It's not safe for any of us."

Derek didn't shift, his body too still. "Do you know something I don't?"

Peter's lips twitched, amused. "Let's just say, in the short time I've been back amongst the mostly-sane and living, I've heard things. Dean and Sam Winchester's reputation precedes them. You'd do well to stay as far from those brothers as possible. And as for this little creature feature roaming the land? Let the hunters do their job. They already have Alan helping them."

Scott had heard enough. "You know what it is?" He stepped forward, forcing the two to look his way. "You know what took Stiles?"

Derek let out a breath, wincing, as if he didn't like what he was about to say. "It's called an Ala. All you need to know is that it's dangerous."

Peter quirked a brow. "And also it's a shape shifting demonic monster that can possess people and change the weather. You might want to know that, too. And, yes, I talked to Dr. Deaton as well. He wasn't pleased to see me."

Scott's jaw dropped slightly. "Demonic? Seriously?" He opened and closed his mouth, stopping any questions forming on the tip of his tongue. Derek was right. He didn't need to know details at the moment. What he needed to know was how they were going to find his friend. "That's the thing that has Stiles? What does it want with him?"

Isaac slipped off the porch, landing beside Scott, and he gave one curt nod. "I was nearby when his Jeep was found. Something non-human had definitely taken him. And it wasn't a werewolf."

Scott reached into his pocket, pulling free the napkin. The werewolves sneered at the reek coming from inside it.

"I know," Scott said. "I picked up this scent yesterday, and then I found this on the Jeep. It was burned onto a protection symbol. Do you think we can track it?"

Peter snorted. "Yes, brilliant idea. Or you know, you could try sniffing out the human you're looking for."

Derek shot him a look but turned back to Scott. "He's right. Stiles is our priority, and he'll be easier to find."

"He…is?" Scott blinked, confused. "I mean, he's my best friend, so of course he's my priority, but I didn't expect you guys to…You're going to help?"

Derek cocked his head, brow furrowed as if he were offended by the question. "Why do you think we're here?"

Peter waved a hand, as if to draw Scott's attention. "Correction. They're here to help. I'm here to warn. Since I've done that, I'll be on my way…"

Derek growled under his breath. "Fine." He jerked his head in the direction of the driveway. "Run away. If you want to pretend you're being helpful, you can search the town. I'm fairly certain that won't be where the scary hunters are looking."

Peter's grin was tight. "Sounds like a plan."

Derek turned back to Scott. "We'll find him, Scott. But Peter's right. The Winchesters can take care of the creature. Leave that battle to them. Understood?"

Scott nodded, swallowing down an answer he might regret. "Where do we start?"

* * *

The gray fall of day brought with it a quiet rain that filled the forest with a low, humming song. Sam squinted against the water splattering is face, feeling strange with his head hidden beneath a hood, and then he went back to work on the tree's bark, carving free the rough layer to find the pale meat beneath. He worked free another chunk of wood before stepping back, looking at the symbol. It was the last, and when he turned around, he saw that Deaton had finished marking the trees making up his side of the circle and moved on to laying out the small altar to use in the summoning.

They were alone, the two of them, and it left Sam uneasy. There was something about the forest Deaton had chosen…Something dangerous. Sam couldn't put his finger on why his senses were on high alert, but he was sure they'd picked the perfect spot for the ritual.

"Are you certain this is going to work?" Sam asked, to fill the silence between them.

Deaton looked up, rain drops sliding off his slick head and rolling into his wide, somber eyes. "Unfortunately, Sam, I'm_ sure_ it does. Despite the consequences of its use, it did work on Sarah. And this is close to where we performed the ritual last time.."

"I'd feel better if Dean were here for this."

Deaton raised a brow in agreement. "Yes, as would I. But the sheriff intends to find his son, and I doubt very much your brother would be willing to leave the man alone in this forest."

Sam understood. Didn't mean he agreed. But then, he knew his brother. Dean needed to be there for Paul, and for the kid. There was a good chance that, if this went wrong, they might not have another chance to find him. Nevertheless Sam was uneasy with the plan. It wasn't a particularly solid one.

"Ready, Sam?" Deaton asked.

Sam nodded back to him, slowly drawing the demon killing blade out of his jacket, and the other man took that as an invitation to begin reading. As soon as the first line left his mouth, lightning struck in the horizon, lighting up the night sky, and a wolf howled in reply.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The Beasts We Know

* * *

When night came, it arrived quickly. One moment cloudy skies were guiding the wandering pair, and the next they were being led by a crescent moon and the steady beam of a flashlight. The rain had slowed, a quiet settling over the woods.

Soaked to the bone, eyes glistening with awareness, Dean paused, letting Paul walk ahead.

"Do we even know where we're going?" Sheriff Stilinski asked.

Dean didn't take offense to the fact that he'd been asked the question, and answered it, twice already. The other man was out of sorts, despite the calm tone of voice, and Dean couldn't blame him. He knew exactly what it felt to have your only remaining family in danger. That thought left a sour taste in Dean's throat. The plan was solid enough, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Especially the part where Sam was going to take on the monster on his own. He should be there with him.

When he looked up and saw Paul turned to face him, sorrow in his eyes, Dean remembered why he wasn't.

"You said the stream is up ahead?" Dean asked. "The lore says she likes streams. It won't hurt to try there first."

"For all we know, she could have him in an empty house in town." Paul ran hand down his face, his voice almost too quiet to hear. "If he's even still in Beacon Hills."

"He's still here," Dean replied, sounding more confident than he was. It was a hunch, but that wasn't what Paul needed to hear right now. Hell, the idea that she was even near running water was a hunch, too, based on too much lore and too little time fact-checking.

Still, they'd ran on less than a decent hunch before, and when it came to monsters, Dean's guesses had gotten pretty damn accurate of late. He'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit this forest put him in his element. It reminded him too much of Purgatory. It felt alive with the supernatural and left his skin tingling with anticipation of a battle.

She was here. _Something_ was here.

He spared his watch a glance. "Deaton'll be starting the summoning soon, so keep your eyes peeled. They're west of us. When she feels the call, we might be able to see where she's coming from and follow her trail."

Stilinski seemed to accept that answer, nodding and suddenly on full alert as he continued on, surveying the land for movement. Dean didn't take a step forward. Instead, head bowed slightly in concentration, he paused only a moment before drawing his handgun and swinging it toward the trees to his right.

"Show yourself," he called out, holding his flashlight steady above the barrel. "Now, or so help me you're going to be eating a bullet."

The woods remained quiet only a moment longer before a twig snapped, and Dean watched a figure move out from behind a tree, a hand up to block out the light. Even so, Dean could see it was a teenage boy, dark haired, a striped hoodie hanging heavy over his shoulders.

_"Scott?"_

The call came from Dean's side. The hunter raised a brow. "You know this kid, Paul?"

"Yeah." The sheriff sighed, waving a hand at Dean. "Put that down, already. It's one of Stiles' friends."

Dean kept the weapon on his target. "You sure about that?"

Paul hesitated, shooting Dean a sideways glance that said he understood what the hunter was implying. "Scott, what are you doing out here?" he asked, his voice low.

The kid took another cautious step forward, hands held out in surrender. "I know this probably looks strange, okay, but you have to listen to me." He took a steadying breath. "I know Stiles is missing, and that's why I'm here. To find him."

Paul's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Scott, how could you possibly know - "

"It's a long story."

"Shorten it," Dean snapped.

Scott shook his head. "Trust me. I will._ Later_. But right now, Stiles is in danger."

Dean's eyes narrowed in suspicion. There was something off about the kid, something that raised the hairs on the back of his neck, but he couldn't quite convince himself to shoot first and test for evil later. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, a flash of light at the corner of his eye cut him off, followed by a crack of thunder.

Dean wondered if that was it, the start of the ritual.

A wolf howled in the distance, as if in answer. Scott shifted his weight, as if the sound put him on edge, even if it didn't startle him. He looked to Dean again, but his pleading gaze disappeared, replaced by an intense stare at the sky above. The teen raised a hand, covering his nose, and then Dean could smell it too, right past the burst of ozone was a faint reek, like the smell of a demon in a not-so-fresh meatsuit.

Scott pointed toward the sky. "There."

Dean followed the movement, finally lowering his weapon when he saw the black on black clouds lowering over the swell of land past them. It was close, almost overhead. And if the ritual was working, maybe that meant the ala and its prey was too.

Without another word, the three took off running toward the storm cloud. Dean pulled ahead of Stilinski, gun still drawn, and he felt the teenager race past his unarmed side. The hunter reached out, snagging the boy's jacket to slow him down, a curse at his lips. Hiding something or not, there was no way he was letting another kid get snatched by this thing.

"Stay behind me!" he yelled.

Scott growled under his breath but dropped back, to the hunter's shoulder, just as the ground beneath the two of them disappeared. Bouncing off one knee, Dean managed to get back on his feet, fingers still tangled in the teen's jacket as they slid down the slick bank, both of them stumbling down onto the muddy shore of a stream as soon as they hit flat earth again. Paul managed to stop himself before taking the quick route, turning sideways to hold onto a tree root as he eased down the ten feet of slick bank.

Then they stopped, as one.

"Stiles…"

Dean wasn't sure which of them muttered the name, but it was loud enough to catch the attention of the thing in front of them. The moon's light was almost absent behind the storm, but with the lightning popping in the cloud, they could make out the form of a cloud of smoke, covering something against the high bank in the curve of the stream up ahead.

A face formed in the smoke as it pulled away from the earth, spilling out over the shallow water. It took on a feminine form, wisps of hair-like tendrils floating out around its skeletal grin and clawing fingers.

Stilinski raised his flashlight and the smoke was lit ash white, its features even more ghastly, but it was enough. They could see him then, at her side, a body standing against the tall bank of dirt and roots.

A whispery voice greeted them.

"_What is mine, is mine. You will not…take my son…from me…"_

Paul pushed past Dean. "He's not your son!"

The ala rushed forward, cackling at the man, but she stopped short, her long, clawing hands grabbing at the gravel of the stream as she was pulled backward.

"_No_!" she cried. "_He is mine!_"

Its toothy mouth opened wide in an angry howl as it was suddenly jerked away from the group, its smoky form flying over the bank and into the forest.

"Son of a bitch. I guess the summoning work," Dean noted.

The other two didn't stop to hear him, running past toward the curve of the bank. As soon as the flashlight washed over him, the kid hanging in the roots flinched, pulling away. Paul slid in beside him, cupping the boy's cheek.

"Stiles?" he begged. "Come on, son. Tell me you're okay."

The boy rolled his head against the mud, his skin stark white in comparison and a clump of dirt and dried blood clinging to his temple. "Dad?" he asked, eyes still closed. "Can you turn off the light?"

"Sorry, sorry," Paul muttered, hand shaking as he pointed the flashlight to his side. "Son, are you hurt?"

Scott was already pulling at the roots holding the other teen's arms down, a look of steely determination on his face.

Dean came in behind them, pulling his knife out of his jacket. He whistled and tossed it to Scott. "Cut him down."

"Scott?" Stiles asked, blinking to awareness. He raised his head slowly, as if weighed fifty pounds, and then locked eyes on Dean. "Oh, crap, there's a hunter behind you," he attempted to whisper, his voice slurred.

Scott winced, but didn't reply. Dean, however, raised a brow. "We get done with this and we're having a talk," he promised. But his voice softened when he saw Stilinski pulling his son against him, a silent sob shaking his back.

"Stiles." Paul lifted his head again, trying to force his son to focus. "Son, you need to tell me what she did to you. You need to tell me if…"

The injured teen blinked, confused. "I don't remember it all."

"Don't do this here, Paul. We won't know what she did until it's over," Dean said, softly. He put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Get your kid to safety."

Paul glanced up. "Where are you - ?"

Dean was already a few feet away, ready to climb back up the muddy slope, in the direction that the monster had left. West. "That thing is headed straight for Sam and Deaton. Take care of Stiles, Paul."

He was gone before he could hear the sheriff's reply.

* * *

Deaton's voice trailed off, the ritual finished, and the world around them grew oddly quiet for a split second. But Sam could feel it coming. His body tensed, ready for a blow, and he pulled the demon killing blade up to chest height, its rain-wet edge glistening.

The quiet broke, disturbed by a howl of anger coming from the dark woods that was steadily growing louder.

Then the plan went to hell.

The ala arrived as a wraith-like flash of motion and a gale of wind, the summoning magic drawing it in, even as it scraped at the earth, trying to hold itself from the circle that would capture it with the two men. Sam squinted against the flying bits of gravel and twigs caught up in the wind, and he got his first good look at the creature. Good being a relative term; it was an ever-shifting form, rolling between smoke and serpent and a woman's familiar curves. Sam centered his weight, ready to leap into attack, and Deaton moved to the far edge of the circle preparing to finish his part as soon as the creature entered the trap.

Only, the ala didn't seem to care for the idea.

She saw the hunter waiting for her and let out a hiss, her long fingers letting go of the ground and slicing into the base of the closest tree. The crack sounded as loudly as the thunder above, and it was their only warning before the wood split and a wall of branches and bark collapsed over them. Sam dove out of the way, landing in a roll, and when he looked up, he couldn't see Deaton.

But he could see the circle. What was left of it.

The tree had taken out one of the warding symbols, breaking the trap, and it was only then that Sam realized his knife was no longer in his hand.

"You've got to be kidding me," he groaned.

He caught sight of the handle, sticking up out of the mud, and crawled toward it. A shiver ran over his body as he felt a presence looming over him. It was a familiar sensation, one he'd felt nearly every time a spirit hunt had went sour. He didn't need to look up to know the ala was there, just above, waiting to attack.

The back of his jacket ripped as something sharp snagged the fabric, rolling him over. Sam's back hit the ground hard, knocking the breath out of him, and when he looked up, it was at the form of a woman he couldn't quite remember.

_"He's mine,_" she said, her voice as sharp as the wind through the trees. "_He is what is owed me._"

Sam heard the other creature before he saw it; the snap of a twig, the low, throaty growl of a predator. Then it was over, him, a blur that lunged over Sam's body and onto the ala. The shape shifter lashed out, tossing the new threat to the side as if were a mere nuisance, but by the time she lashed back around, mouth wide and menacing, Sam had his fingers around the knife. He swung out in an arch, catching the creature across the chest.

It wasn't deep enough for a kill, but the cut sizzled with a hot, red glow, and the Ala screamed, flying back from the hunter. Sam scrambled back up, panting with adrenaline, but the shape shifter was falling back, just out of range.

Then his world went white.

Sam blinked, stunned by the sudden flash of the lightning overhead, and the Ala seemed just as confused as she stared up at the sky, where the storm cloud had broken up, allowing the moon to shine down and bleach her essence with its glow.

Three shots rang out, consecrated iron slicing through her form and leaving angry stripes of crackling red in their wake. The ala shrieked out at the woods to her side, seeing another enemy.

"Now, Sam!"

He wasn't sure where the shout had come from, but he knew it was Dean's voice. That was enough to stir him into motion. Jumping up onto the side of the fallen tree, he lunged out with the knife, slipping the tip of the blade through its center.

The Ala let out a scream, sulfur and death on her tongue. Crimson bursts of light lit her from the core, her skeletal image appearing beneath the black smoke in two short burst. Then, with a hissed breath of release, she dissolved into the night air, leaving the blade coated in black.

Sam slipped back off the log, his heavy pant the loudest part of the night, but he didn't back down, one hand reaching behind his back to pull free his Glock.

He leveled on the form laying against one of the broken branches. Whatever it was, it was shaped like a man, leaning forward onto one knee, a clawed hand grasping at its blood-soaked shoulder. Its breathing rattled its hunched back and there was a guttural growl at each exhale.

"Show yourself," Sam ordered.

Sam had seen it, the flash of its bright red eyes, but now that eerie glow was gone, and when it leaned forward, it stared up at him with a gaze Sam recognized.

"Derek?"

The man sat back on his legs, staring up at the hunter. "Sam…I can explain," he said, at a near whisper.

Sam's face hardened. "What the hell are you?"

* * *

It was always strange, the end of a hunt. Time passed too quick and too slow. The moment of the kill always seemed somehow graceful, like watching a scene at half-speed. Seconds after firing the shots at the creature, Dean was back on the run, closing the distance between the broken summoning circle and himself, but somehow those seconds stretched on, allowing him to watch Sam's dark silhouette make the final move, sliding the demon-killing knife into the Ala.

Dean let out a breath his lungs were screaming for, but he was still on the job, searching for Deaton before he allowed himself to slow down. He saw movement a few feet away and heard a groan.

He was at the older man's side before Deaton was able to pull himself onto his knees. Deaton grasped his head, wincing when his hand came back bloody.

"Doc, you okay?" Dean slipped an arm under his, holding him upright. "Anything permanent?"

"I'll get back to you on that," Deaton replied, stumbling against him, but he sounded lucid enough, his eyes bright and fixed ahead, where Sam stood.

"_Derek?_"

Dean heard his brother's voice but didn't register why it sounded strange until a moment later: Sam was talking to someone else. Dean jerked his head up, watching his brother's looming figure, lined with white moonlight. Sam was staring down at something…someone hunched close to the top of the fallen tree. The hunter's gun was pointed in no idle threat and his tone was sharper than it had been a moment earlier.

"What the hell are you?" Sam asked.

"Sam, I can explain."

Dean was startled by the call from his side. Deaton pushed away from him, taking a few steps closer to the youngest Winchester, his hands out a both sides, as if to sate both hunters.

"Don't shoot him," Deaton said.

Dean was beginning to wonder which one of them had taken the hit to the head, because he felt like the odd man out. His brow wrinkled in confusion as he took a sideways step, getting a better look at his brother. And the man in his sights. It was Derek Hale, Sam's old friend huddled in the shadows.

_Does anyone not hang out in the woods at night_? And Dean wished he could leave the thought there, because he hadn't seen whatever his brother had seen, and he almost didn't want to be told this hunt wasn't quite over yet.

"Anyone want to fill me in?" Dean asked.

"Derek Hale is an werewolf," Deaton answered, his voice level, calm, as if they were back in his office, discussing proper flea medication. "But he's not your enemy, Sam. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, he very likely just saved your life."

Sam didn't so much as twitch, but Derek slowly stood to full height, eyes staying on the hunter.

"He's right, Sam," Derek said, quietly. "I came out here to help, not to attack you."

Sam frowned. "You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it."

Dean felt his sidearm growing heavy in his hand, but he raised it a few inches and took a step further from Deaton. "This night just gets better and better," he muttered. He cleared his throat. "Deaton, you need to tell us what the hell is going on here, and you need to tell us right now. Because, obviously I missed something if another monster was invited to this party."

Deaton sighed. "You hunters can be so hard headed at times. Your father reacted much the same way when he found out about the werewolves in Beacon Hills."

Sam finally looked away, sharing a look with Dean.

"That's right, boys," Deaton continued. "Your father knew about the wolves. And he chose to not hunt them. Now, if you two would like to hear more, might I suggest we move this conversation to somewhere a bit more comfortable?"

* * *

The veterinarian's office was too bright, stinging his eyes, which had, between the nature preserve and the car, stayed adjusted to the dim lighting.

Sam wanted to take a moment, close them, but he couldn't let his guard down, even with his brother at his side, adjacent to their escape route, the door to Deaton's office. The vet himself was sitting back in his desk chair, eyes weary either from the evening's events or the swollen lump above his right eye, but Sam couldn't be bothered to check on him right now. Not while a monster stood at the back of the crowded room, watching the hunters with a steady, unwavering look of regret.

"So, werewolf?" Dean asked, not for the first time. "No offense, but you don't quite act like the ones we've run into in the past."

Neither of the men across from him answered, and Sam couldn't concentrate on making light of the subject like his brother. The room was still too tense, the air inside it too thick, too ready for a fight.

Their trip from the woods to the Animal Hospital had almost felt surreal. The woods around them seemed darker and more twisted, the better for hiding things, and the Impala's roaring engine sounded more fierce, like an animal protesting the approach of a predator. Sam figured that it was in his head though, his own thoughts bleeding into his vague observations, trying to distract him from the beast wearing his friend's face, sitting at his side, and the man he thought he knew, Alan Deaton, sitting in the seat in front of him, beside Dean.

It was a quiet ride, and Sam imagined the ride in the Sheriff's car behind them wasn't much easier. Sam hadn't had much of a chance to ask him what he and Paul found out in the woods. He knew only that Stiles was alive, but whether he was well or not was a different matter altogether.

Sam heard the murmur of raised voices past the door, reminding him that Paul Stilinski and two teenagers were currently in the sterile-looking operation room, probably waiting for the rest of the group to join them. To give them answers. Sam didn't have any for them at the moment, but he certainly had enough questions.

"Are you a pureblood?" Sam asked, unable to hold it in any longer.

Derek straightened, obviously thrown off guard by the question. "Some people have called us that," he answered, his voice soft, as if he expected the others outside might be listening in. He shifted his weight, as if he wasn't used to speaking this much and found the attention uncomfortable.

"I was born a werewolf. Sam, you should know that much - I'm still the same person you knew, when we were kids. I was a wolf then, and I'm one now. My family… Laura was the Alpha of our pack after my parents died."

Sam spared his brother a glance, noticing the slight movement in this throat, the only sign that he was surprised by the information.

"That's difference," Dean said, gruffly. "Enjoy eating human hearts?"

Derek's eyes flashed to red. "No." He eased back when he saw both the Winchesters tense, arms loose to their sides, close to their weapons. "We're not monsters. We are predators, but that doesn't mean we hunt _people_."

"Good to know," Sam replied. "How did Dad find out?"

Deaton sighed. "Your father found out during the first hunt for the Ala. I…perhaps foolishly, I told him when he asked me about a few attacks on the local animal population. He didn't respond well to the information."

"I bet." Dean snorted.

Deaton raised a brow. "But I wasn't lying. He left the Hale family alone. He chose not to hunt them."

Derek nodded, to himself. "Laura said that's why you left. We knew, my family. We that John was a hunter. Almost everyone was relieved when you left." The corner of his mouth curved with a humorless grin.

Sam wanted to answer it with one in kind, but he couldn't manage it. Remembering those letters back and forth between Derek and himself, he couldn't imagine writing someone he thought might come back to hunt his family down. A part of him wanted to believe Derek had some nefarious reason for doing that, for keeping in contact, but one look at the other man told him that wasn't true. That somehow made things worse.

Sam broke eye contact with him.

Deaton pushed back from his desk, pulling out a bottom drawer and rummaging through the files inside. Finally, he pulled out a few folded sheets of paper. They were crinkled, as if they'd been wadded together and smoothed out again, and yellow with age. "Your father threw these at me as he was leaving town, with strict instructions that I not share the information with the two of you…I believe there might have been a threat on my life made. I suppose my ability to keep secrets has become somewhat impaired in my old age." He held the pages out. "Go ahead. What your father lacked in penmanship, he made up for in details."

Dean only stared at the folded pages, a blank expression on his face. Sam frowned, then took them from Deaton.

" '…_Tonight I learned the truth about Beacon Hills_…'" Sam's voice trailed off, eyes skimming down the page, brow wrinkled as he read on. He passed the first to Dean and started in on the second, pausing to glance up at Derek. "Dad figured out you were different from the werewolves we'd hunted before."

Derek crossed his arms over his chest. "Normal hunters, those who don't specialize in our kind, they don't often find out about us. The packs stay quiet and keep our secret well. Sometimes though…sometimes there are those who'd hunt humans to sate their bloodlust."

Deaton nodded, leaning across the desk, his somber eyes studying the Winchesters. "It takes the bite of an Alpha wolf to create more of their kind. The werewolves you've hunted, they're rabid, seeking 'heart's blood'. They're not infected by the bite of an Alpha, but by the bite of an Omega. A lone wolf. Those poor unfortunates, with no Alpha to lead them and very little of the instinct a descendant of a pureblood, fall back on their animal nature, murdering for food and sport. Those were the werewolves John was familiar with."

Sam barely heard him, his eyes back on the final sheet. He read the last lines to himself, once, then again, before the writing cut off sharply:

_'They're innocent. Deaton's right. I've researched the area, the surrounding areas…This pack hasn't killed, at least not any humans. There're a family. Husbands and wives. Little children. God, Sammy and Dean are friends with these kids. I won't ask my boys to hate them, and I can't bring myself to hunt them, not without proof that they've taken lives. But I can't sit around and pretend they don't exist. Any other hunter I know would take action right now. They're monsters. A part of me wishes Deaton hadn't told me the truth. Would make my job a hell of a lot easier - '_

"That kid one of your kind?"

Sam's head jerked up at the sound of Dean's voice. "What kid?"

But Derek was staring at both of them, his expression dangerous as he looked from one to the other, and he didn't seem to notice Deaton glancing up at him warily. Sam raised a brow in question, then remembered the teenager who'd been waiting at with Paul and his son.

When no one answered, Dean stood up a bit straighter. "Unless he's a bloodthirsty maniac, no one's killing the kid," he said, quietly. "You have my word."

Sam blinked, surprised. Dean's words sounded almost sincere enough to be the truth, and he wondered if maybe they were. _Dean, you can't just make that decision for us._ But maybe he had already. Maybe the pages in his hand, and the old friend sitting across from them, was enough.

It wouldn't be the first time. He remembered the kids who'd died, only a few months back, their lives ruined by one bite. Apparently by an Omega. They'd let the girl go. They'd let a_ werewolf_ go. And they hadn't looked back.

God, he hoped she'd found a pack. That she wasn't another one they failed.

Sam gave his brother another glance, feeling his eyes on him. No, Dean wasn't lying. He didn't plan to kill anyone tonight. Unless he had to.

"Yes," Derek finally replied, after a moment. "Scott's a werewolf. Stiles knows. Sheriff Stilinski doesn't."

"That's going to make for a fun conversation," Dean noted.

Derek shook his head. "The Sheriff doesn't _need_ to know."

"Maybe not," Dean answered. He glanced down, in thought. Sam could recognize the look on his face, of his brother weighing his options. "I think he's probably had enough of the supernatural for the time being, but you know he's going to find out, right? Those kid in there, they kind of suck at lying."

Derek smiled. "You have no idea."

Sam took another look at the pages, then raised them, catching Deaton's eye. "You've been saving these for us. You planned on telling us, didn't you?"

Deaton's eyes shined, but Sam didn't recognize the expression on the man's face as anything other than faint amusement. "I did," Deaton admitted. "I knew that Paul Stilinski needed your help. But he's not the only one. I thought you might be more prone to helping a pack of werewolves if you knew you could trust them."

Derek took a step forward. "Deaton, this isn't their problem…"

"Not yet." Deaton shared a look with the werewolf. "It might do you well to have hunter allies in the months to come."

* * *

Paul Stilinski could feel the kids watching him, but he couldn't lift his head, not right now. He couldn't let them see how defeated he felt, so he cradled his face between his hands, staring into the blackness behind his eyes.

There were a dozen questions floating around his mind, begging to be asked. Starting with why Scott was even here. Ending with the important one. The one about his boy.

He finally looked up, his son's worried expression pulling at his heart. The bruises along the side of the teenager's face were stark against his pale skin, but some of his color was coming back. Paul wasn't fooled by it. He remembered Sarah. She'd looked well afterward too, and she'd been anything but.

"Dad?" Stiles asked. "I'm okay." He forced a crooked smile, and Paul knew it was supposed to be comforting, but it wasn't. "I'm not hurt that bad. It's…it's over, Dad."

Scott was sitting snug beside his son, as if waiting for him to fall forward and need a helping hand. Paul wondered what kind of father that made him, if he couldn't even be that close to his kid right now, if he couldn't even bare to touch him knowing what he knew.

"It's over," Paul agreed, because it was the one thing he was sure of. When the Winchester's had met them at the cars, they'd gotten that part across loud and clear. The Ala wasn't just gone. It was dead.

But it might have been too late.

The doors to the operation room opened, and Paul stood up quickly, reminding himself of one too many times he'd done the same in a hospital, waiting for word from frowning doctors. Dean and Sam walked into the room, Deaton following close behind.

"Boys, go into the other room."

The two teenagers wore blank faces before Stiles scowled. "Dad, we're not leaving - "

Dean shook his head. "This involves them, too, Paul. And I have it on good authority that at least one of them has really good hearing, anyhow."

Scott glanced up sharply, chewing at his bottom lip, but Paul didn't question it. Dean was right. The boys, both of them, would find out soon.

"How do we know if she…" Stilinski's voice broke and he started over. "How do we know if we were too late?"

The brothers shared a look, both of their expressions weary, before they turned back to him.

Dean let out a slow breath. "Paul, when Sam and I were researching this thing, we told you we had an idea of what it wanted with Stiles."

Paul stared at his son, giving one shake of his head to stop the boy from asking. "To possess him," he answered quietly.

"Not exactly," Sam replied. "Or, at least, that's only part of it…"

Dean picked up before Paul could interrupt. "Remember when she called him her son? We think she was looking to collect a companion instead of a body. Stiles_ was_ exposed to her poison. When he was still in the womb."

"In the lore, it says that some people are thought to have been survivors of the Ala's 'breath'. Usually they're male survivors," Sam said. "They're called _aloviti_ men. And, if they don't die from the Ala's possession, they're usually blessed in some way, with strength or…" He paused, the sound of thunder outside interrupting him. "Sometimes even with the ability to influence the weather, like the Ala."

"I'm doing this."

Paul almost didn't hear his son, but Stiles' eyes were wide, so childlike that they took the older man back a good ten years, and he knew it had been his son to speak. "Stiles…"

"It was me, changing the weather?" Stiles asked, louder.

"Possibly," Sam replied. Then he gave him a small smile. "Probably," he corrected. "This kind of ability…it's usually controlled by moods and emotions. Maybe something's happened in your life recently, something that set it off. Or maybe you were exposed to some sort of magical ritual without realizing it, something that would have brought that part of you to surface. I don't know. But whatever it was, the Ala must have sensed when your gifts began to show themselves. We wondered why she chose now to return. I think we know."

Scott reached out, touching Stile's shoulder loosely. Paul heard him mutter something about ashes, but Stiles didn't seem to hear, his eyes still glued to the hunters.

"Is that it, then? I mean, I get kicked around at school and suddenly there's flash flooding?" He stood up, almost shaking with nervous energy. "I'm a friggin' X-man?"

Dean raised a brow. "Well. You're not as hot as the one I'm thinking of, but yeah, basically. Or that's the theory. Maybe it's just stormy outside and Sammy's reading too much out of some old lore."

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother. "Maybe," he admitted, grudgingly.

Deaton stepped past the men. "Gentlemen, as much as I'd like to stay up all night discussing any latent superpowers Mr. Stilinski may or may not have, I think I speak for everyone when I say it's been a long night."

Paul swallowed hard, crossing the room in two strides and grabbing his son up in his arms, finally able to touch his boy without grieving for him. He held him tight against his chest, forgetting the others around them.

"Let's go home, son."

* * *

Dean slipped a tape into the deck, smirking as the music blared to life, too loud for the early morning. He could feel Sam's sneer, so, in a show of mercy, he turned it down a notch, then leaned back, pulling out of the Stilinksi's driveway and into the brightly lit road ahead.

"You sure you don't want to stick around a little longer, say goodbye to Derek?" Dean asked.

Sam snorted to himself. "I think it's better if we don't. I'm ready to get out of this town."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, well, he has our number. Which is weird." He watched Sam out of the corner of his eye. His brother was leaning against the passenger's door, staring up out of the window at the blue sky above. "I think Stiles is having a good dream. Think it's a Scarlett Johansson or Emma Stone kinda 'beautiful day'?"

Sam made a face, but his smile wavered after a moment. "We should have told Paul the whole truth, Dean."

"What, rubbed in the fact that his son basically has monster-demon essence in him? I don't that would help either of them, Sam. Didn't help us."

Sam was quiet a moment. "We should have told him what it could mean. What if…" He let out a breath. "I don't want to have to hunt that kid, Dean."

Dean stared at the road ahead of him. "Me neither, Sam... I think I understand why Dad left Beacon Hills in such a hurry. Place attracts the weird."

Sam turned, watching his brother's stoic profile. "I have a feeling we'll be coming back."

"Yeah, well..." Dean leaned forward, cranking up the music as they passed the 'Now Leaving' sign. "Not if we're busy closing Hell."

* * *

**End Notes**: Well, we've reached the end. I hope you enjoyed this. It didn't turn out quite like I wanted, but I plan on writing more Teen Wolf/SPN xovers in the future, since this was my first dive into TW ficland...Maybe even a companion story or sequel to fic. The references to "pureblood" in this chapter came from the SPN season 8 episode "Bitten".

Thank you all for reading. Comments are the currency of the realms, so I thank all those who have tossed a coin into my hat. :)


End file.
